


Worship

by Xazz



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Blood Drinking, Body Worship, Fantasy World, M/M, Magic, Magic Sword, Man Out of Time, Masturbation, NSFW, Sex, Situational telepathy, Telepathy, Worship, magic world, mentions of torture, sword - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-01-04 14:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21199319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xazz/pseuds/Xazz
Summary: Malik is in Southern Turkey researching the former practice of white smithing, a now dead practice involving "magic" white rock. He's got a lead and more than he could hope for in there being a still intact white rock forge that's since been forgotten and neglected over the generations as the world moved away from magic.Then he finds an old sword in the decrepit forge and brings it back home with him.





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been thinking about this AU for years now and I'm finally getting to writing it. I'm very excited about it because it's very good and dumb.


	2. The White Rock Forge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd, the first chapter!

Malik had been in Dörtyol for three weeks so far. A small city all things considered with a great view of the Mediterranean in the west and Taurus Mountains in the east. It was a nice place, not as crowded as somewhere like Istanbul or Adana where he’d flown in. There were beautiful mosques older than anything back home dotted around every neighborhood and he was still getting used to waking up at the crack of dawn to go to them with his homestay family. At the very least he knew that the little storefront half a block away from the mosque they visited made such a strong cup of coffee it could strip paint. Malik had one of those every morning and he was set for the day. That woke him up to go to prayer and then go back home for breakfast before he went to work.

He was in Dörtyol as part of his anthropology research. His focus was on ‘dying’ metalworking practices in the Middle East. It was his second research trip and homestay out here but last time he’d been on the other side of the mountains in Aleppo. Now he was in Turkey for this trip.

He'd found the Tazim family by just surfing the internet and finding them on a happy accident. Well he’d found the younger son and through him had found his father, one of the last whitesmiths in the Middle East. Whitesmithing was mostly a dying art. Many people confused them with silver smiths but the two weren't anything alike.

White smithing had been around before the rise of Islam but after Islam it slowly grew out of favor. The white rock whitesmiths used was difficult to use and almost impossible to find unless you were very rich or had a so-called ‘stone caller’. But the last of the stone callers were said to have died out with the final sacking of Rome in the fifth century so they'd had to rely on what resources and veins of white rock that had been found up until then. But with the rise of Islam, the magical properties attributed to white rock (none of which were ever confirmed) didn't mesh well with the rise of the new religion.

It had taken about three dozen emails for Malik to get into proper phone contact with Ubaid Tazim, the aging whitesmith, and five weeks to set up the homestay. Which was how Malik landed here, in Dörtyol, learning what the old man knew for the duration of his homestay which was seven weeks.

There was no smithy at the Tazim’s. Malik knew well enough white rock didn't need to be heated and molded like metal. He kept asking Ubaid to show him how he did whitesmithing but the old man never did. The only reason Malik didn't think Ubaid wasn't pulling his leg was because of the _amount_ of white rock artifacts all over their home.

Like the one shaped like a delicate flower that hung over Malik’s guest bed he was obsessed with. He was looking up at it while a Turkish podcast played in his ears. The white rock shimmered even in the dull light from the setting sun outside. He'd love to know how it was made and it certainly wasn't carved. Every ounce of research he made on whitesmithing showed that white rock was never carved but the exact way it _was_ made was something no one could quite agree on.

He started when someone knocked on his door. “Malik,” Yusuf called, “dinner is ready.”

“Yes, coming,” Malik called back and got off his bed. He put his phone on the bedside table and went to go wash his hands.

Jawna, Ubaid’s wife, had made another lovely meal when he sat at the table with them. She didn't look at Malik even after two weeks but she'd talk to him when spoken to and answer his questions. Malik liked her very much and she was very kind and gentle. Yusuf was their youngest son and Malik’s age. He'd come home from Adana after some interpersonal relationship had fallen through after he’d finished school. Malik didn't ask about that. Their other three children all had left home, had their own families and lives.

Jawna asked Yusuf about his day and he was chipper as he talked to Jawna about his job down at the seaport. Yusuf was the most cheerful guy Malik knew. It was nice.

After dinner he, Yusuf, and Ubaid watched TV on the old tube TV they still had. Football was on and Yusuf and Ubaid were _very_ invested in the game against Egypt. Malik didn't understand football. He didn't understand American football either for that matter. But he was glad they had fun and cheered along when there was a score. Which there was one score the entire game, from Turkey.

After the football game Yusuf excused himself for the night. Malik was alone with Ubaid in the living room while the news was on. “Ubaid,” he said, “I've been very patient so far since I came here. You said you'd actually show me how whitesmithing worked since you can, you know, do it. I really would like to see. If I don't have anything to show for my trip out here it’ll be a lot harder for me to get grant money in the future.”

Ubaid sighed and stroked his beard with troubled thoughtfulness. “I know,” he said.

“So you’ll show me?” Malik asked hopefully.

Ubaid’s face pulled down. “There is no more white rock, Malik,” he said, meeting Malik’s eyes. “You’ve been such a nice addition here I didn't want to upset you and tell you there isn't any.”

Malik frowned. “But— but there’s a forge, right?” he prodded, desperate.

“There is,” Ubaid nodded slowly.

“You… do know how to whitesmith, don't you?”

“In theory I suppose. My father told me the way it was supposed to be done but even when he was young there was no more white rock in our forge,” Ubaid said apologetically.

Malik tried not to be sour. But he felt like he'd been had. Sure he was here on a grant but he felt like he'd wasted his time! He could have spent the time he’d been trying to contact the Tazims looking for another whitesmith who maybe _did_ have white rock still.

But still. A forge. That was more than his last research venture. That had ended early because the whitesmith hadn't been a whitesmith at all but a keeper of white rock and the translation into Urdu had been bad. They'd had items of all sorts made of white rock but no notes, no books, nothing that said how it was made or the practices behind it. They'd at least given Malik a piece of unrefined white rock for his trouble and apology for wasting his time. At least the Tazims _had_ a forge. He'd take a forge over the rock any day.

“Can I still see it?” he asked.

Ubaid nodded, “Yes. Yes of course. It’s a drive out of the city but I can take you.”

“I wish you had told me earlier,” he tried not to be angry but it was hard. He felt so slighted by Ubaid who he thought was a good man with a nice family.

“I know. It was difficult to explain over the phone when you were just very enthusiastic about meeting a whitesmith and I didn't want to disappoint you.”

Malik felt some of his anger dissipate. It was hard to be angry when Ubaid sounded so genuinely apologetic. “It’s okay. I can get a bit over-enthused about things. But we will go tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Thank you so much, Ubaid, this is really important to me.”

“I know. That's why I've been reluctant to show you. I hope it lives up to your expectations.”

“Anything is better than nothing. The last ‘whitesmith’ I spoke to didn't even have a forge anymore. But there is one?”

“There is a forge, yes,” Ubaid nodded.

“Okay. Great. I’m going to get to bed then. I’ll see you in the morning Ubaid,” he said respectfully and got up. 

He returned to his bedroom and changed into his sleep clothes. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and set up his lap desk on the bed to do some work before he went to sleep. Just a bit of journaling about the day and his excitement about what was happening tomorrow. It was more field notes and less a journal about his thoughts but it was important to document everything as a scientist.

Once he'd finished his notes he closed his laptop, put away the lap desk and laid down. It was warm this time of year, even with the old window unit grinding on the other side of the room. He slept without even a sheet. As he closed his eyes the white rock rose twinkled in the yellow light of the streetlamp outside.

—

Malik was up early as usual. As he was getting dressed there was a soft knock on the door. He opened it and saw Ubaid and Yusuf in sturdy clothing for hiking. “Uh, everything alright?” he asked.

“Yes. It is a long drive out to the forge. We’re leaving now,” Ubaid said.

Malik blinked, “Before prayer?”

“Yes. The road only goes so high so bring some boots. We’re leaving as soon as you’re ready,” Ubaid said.

“R-right. Okay, give me a second,” and he closed the door to change his clothes. Thankfully he did have boots with him and hopped around his room on one foot to get them tied up. He stuffed his camera, two journals, some charcoal for etchings, and his phone all into a satchel before leaving the guest room.

Jawna had made coffee and a light breakfast for them before they left. A modest affair of some bread, cheese, and sucuk all just barely warmed. Malik gulped it all down with his coffee and the three men left the house and piled into the old sedan the Tazims owned. Yusuf usually drove a moped around the city but he could drive a car too.

“You sure it’s alright we skip morning prayer? I wouldn't want you to do anything against your beliefs for me,” Malik said from the backseat as they drove down the quiet morning roads. It was still dark out but getting lighter. Lights were on in most of the homes they passed.

“Allah won’t be angry if we miss a prayer or two,” Yusuf said brightly. “And you shouldn’t pray if you have trouble doing so or if something physically prevents you. Allah knows we will be back.”

“Oh. I see. Have you been to the forge before Yusuf?”

“Eh, once or twice when I was little,” his blue eyes looked back at Malik in the rearview mirror as he spoke.

“How long is the drive? Are we going into the mountains?”

“It is a ways,” Ubaid said, “And yes.”

Yusuf turned on some music and the three of them sat in a comfortable silence for the most part. They drove all morning out of the city and up into the winding mountain roads, most of which were dirt and looked like they saw very little car traffic.

Then Yusuf seemed to pull off to the side at random and parked the car. “Alright, we're here,” he said.

“We are?” Malik asked, looking out the window, all he saw was trees.

“Well, we're at the furthest the roads go. Now it’s a hike and we should go before it gets too hot,” Yusuf got out of the car and Malik quickly followed suit. He made sure he had his satchel as he followed Yusuf to what looked like a deer trail.

“How often do you come here?” Malik asked Ubaid. He had a walking stick with him to help him move around but he wasn't so old that he couldn’t keep up a good pace with them.

“Not often.”

“How far is the hike?”

“About an hour.”

“Really? So far away from the city?”

“My father said his grandfather told him there used to be a town up in these areas. But it was gone before my great grandfather was born too. All that remains are these animal trains and the white rock forge. It doesn't make sense to maintain it anymore all the way up here.”

“I see,” Malik nodded and took out his phone to at least get the GPS coordinates for the area. That was the only part of his phone that worked at the moment too. He had no service out here. They were out in the wilderness.

Malik wasn't in the best shape and he wished he was. He was exhausted quickly from climbing and was glad Ubaid needed to stop every few minutes to catch his breath. Malik wasn't fat but he wasn't in shape either. He resolved to be better if he wanted to come out here more.

It took over an hour to get to a dilapidated building nestled against naked stone on the mountain. “Here we are,” Yusuf said. Prick was winded but not about to die like Malik was _and_ he was carrying a heavy backpack with their water and lunch in it. If Yusuf wasn't so nice Malik would hate him. He put the backpack down and unzipped it, handing a fresh bottle of water to his father and then to Malik. Malik chugged it. He was sweating through his clothes in the growing heat of the day and felt awful. “Let’s go sit inside where there’s some shade,” Yusuf said and ushered them both inside. Malik didn't argue, some shade sounded _fantastic_. 

Inside the building he saw it was a facade. The face of the building led to a large carved room. Malik looked as he sat and rested his calves. The walls were covered in some sort of hieroglyphs and what wasn't were heavily decorated frescos. Parts of the fresco plaster had fallen over the centuries but he could still see images. He wanted a closer look for sure.

Once he felt better he got up and took out his camera and went to investigate the frescos. One side depicted the mountains; men holding white rock, and a woman with a glowing aura with white rock floating around her. Parts had fallen and crumbled away with time but they were so beautiful. On the other side was what looked like an ancient whitesmith tale Malik had read about in several cultures who had whitesmiths. The binding of white rock to metal to infuse it with magic and the metal shaped into weapons. The weapons were used as sacrificial items and bathed in blood.

Malik started when Yusuf came up behind him and turned on his flashlight, bathing the rest of the room in light. There were old tables and stone benches in the big room, scraps of wood from crates and various human detritus and animal waste and beyond a black doorway into another room. “The forge is through there,” Yusuf said, motioning with the beam of light. He chuckled when Malik practically ran in.

Whatever Malik was expecting it wasn't what he saw.

The new room had a pit in the middle filled with white rock dust that glittered from the flashlight illuminating it. Against one wall was some strange looking brick oven with no chimney. Next to the oven was a shattered crate. The walls were covered in the same hieroglyphs as the entrance. “This is it?” Malik asked as Ubaid came into the back room.

“Yes. This is how it looked when my father showed it to me. He said that when he was younger it had a bench and table in it and a strange anvil. Then one day he came up here and the anvil was gone.”

Malik looked around in dismay. “This is… really all there is?”

“I’m afraid so. This is why I didn’t want to show you the forge. I knew you'd be disappointed.”

Malik was too. He was so disappointed and not a little heartbroken. He'd been so excited to see the forge but seeing it now… there was nothing here. It was empty and had been looted over the generations.

He tried to look on the bright side. There was still all the hieroglyphs! And there were the frescos and the oven. He still had plenty to look at here. “Did your father ever see the forge used?” Malik asked, turning to Ubaid.

“No,” Ubaid shook his head.

“So do you know how it works?”

“Sort of,” Ubaid said. “You put the white rock into the pit and add a catalyst to it. The catalyst has something to do with the oven. That reduces the white rock into a workable shape and you can work it from there. You needed special tools infused with white rock to work the white rock, or so I was told.”

“Which makes no sense. You’d need the tools to make the tools,” Malik said.

“That is just what I was told. And you would work it on the anvil. Though what the tools were I can't remember anymore,” he frowned.

“Do you remember what your father said about the anvil?”

Ubaid was quiet in thought. “He said his grandfather hit it with a hammer and it sang.”

“It was hollow?” How odd.

“Yes.”

“Hmmm. Well, regardless of anything else this is still the most intact white rock forge we’ve seen in a long while. Only the one in Alexandria is more intact. So if nothing else the site will be worth it,” he said, trying to be upbeat. But still, he knew nothing of the forge really.

“I’m glad we could have been of some help,” Ubaid said solemnly.

“I’m going to take a bunch of pictures. Yusuf, can I borrow the flashlight? You two don't have to hang out back here if you don't want.”

“Sure, bud,” and Yusuf handed it to him. “We’ll be in the entrance room. I brought some cards, dad, want to play?”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” and the father and son left Malik alone in the forge room.

Once they were gone Malik felt like he could really show as depressed and disheartened as he felt. He sighed looking around. He put the flashlight on the oven aimed at the ceiling to better illuminate everything and started taking pictures. After carefully documenting the walls he poked around the oven. It looked a lot like a classic brick pizza oven but there was no chimney. There was a white residue inside and it was powdery when he touched it. He took about ten thousand pictures of the oven too. The crate remains next to it were nothing of great interest either. Just wood splinters.

That just left the pit to poke around next. But before he could Yusuf called him out to the entrance for lunch, more bread, and cheese but this time with lamb and a cold cucumber salad from a lunch box Yusuf pulled out of his pack.

“Have you found anything in there?” Yusuf asked.

“No. But its still very interesting,” Malik said. “I’ve seen some of the same symbols on other whitesmith forges we've found and I’ll be eager to go home and do some cross-referencing.”

“Great. How much longer do you need?”

“Today? Another hour or so probably. I’d like to come back in a few days, take some more pictures, bring some more equipment.”

“I think we can accommodate that,” Yusuf nodded eagerly.

Malik finished off his lunch, “Alright. Time to get back to it,” he wiped his hands on his shorts and got up, going back into the forge. He still needed to investigate that pit.

The pit itself was a bowl shape made of stone edged in what looked like metal. The metal rim had more hieroglyphs around it. He stepped down into it and yelped when he found the white rock dust was a lot deeper than he expected.

“Everything alright, Malik?” Yusuf called from the entrance room.

“Yes! I’m fine, just startled myself,” he called back reassuringly. Yusuf didn't respond.

He leaned down and picked up some of the white rock dust. It was as fine as dried clay dust and sparkled like glitter in his hand. It was about four inches deep at the bottom of the pit. White rock dust wasn't useful for anything since it couldn't be fused or melted down into itself again. But there was quite a bit here. Far more white rock than Malik had ever seen outside of a museum or a whitesmithing family home. He dug around in the pit just for giggles and was surprised when he found something.

He stood up, pulling out an old sword still in its scabbard. It was covered in dirt with a fine coating of white rock all over it. Well, that was unexpected. With a grunt he tried to take the blade out of the scabbard. He managed to wrench it out a few inches. The blade was rusted to hell and back but not in the same way ancient swords were. Meaning this was probably a contemporary sword that had been left here. Or maybe the white rock had preserved it. Malik was going to go with it being contemporary. He could make out dark iron colored colors through the dirt and grime like it was covered in blood. A century or two old murder weapon left in an unused whitesmith forge. You were guaranteed to never find it. Except Malik had found it.

Malik hefted it and climbed out of the pit. He put it in the oven before going back and looking for anything else in the pit, finding nothing he climbed back out and took a bunch of pictures of the pit and the area surrounding it. He squatted and took out a notebook to make about three pages of notes. Then he took some rubbings of the hieroglyphs on the rim of the pit and the walls.

He could have easily spent another six hours here getting rubbings and taking more photos but he recognized that it was a hike back to the car and another few hours drive back to the city and other than last night Ubaid tended to go to sleep pretty early. He was sure Yusuf didn’t want to carry his father either down the trail or even from the car to the house.

He checked the time on his phone. It was three. The worst of the days' heat and sun were over now. It would still be an awful hike back to the car but at least it was downhill. 

Before going back out to the Tazims he went back over to the oven and picked up the old sword. Because of his last name Malik found himself into swords. It definitely had helped him get into history by being obsessed with swords as a kid. Especially because his name literally meant ‘king of the sword’ which even at his age he thought was _pretty tight_. It looked a lot like a mameluke because of the less defined curve you'd see on a scimitar. But the design looked maybe 18th or 19th century. So it was old sure but it wasn't an _old_ sword. Might be worth a few hundred bucks back home but nothing especially special about the piece really.

Yusuf was playing on his phone and Ubaid was taking a nap when he came out of the forge with the sword and flashlight. “Okay, I think I'm done for the day,” he said.

“Really? Great,” Yusuf groaned as he stood up and stretched. “Next time I'll make sure to download some movies or something.”

Malik chuckled. “Yeah, its pretty boring waiting. Sorry,” Malik said.

“Ah, it's no worries,” and Yusuf slapped Ubaid’s knee. “Hey, old man, wake up, we're going.”

Ubaid woke with a start, grumbled but got up. “Also, I found this in the pit,” Malik motioned with the sword once Ubaid was awake.

Ubaid rubbed an eye, “Oh? A sword? Is it special?”

“Doesn't look like it. Might be a mid 19th or even 20th century mameluke… erm, saber, scimitar thing,” he said to over explain. “Probably isn’t worth anything.”

“Ah. A shame. For a moment I thought you had found some ancient relic to make up for the state of the forge,” Ubaid said with a slightly pained smile.

Malik shook his head with a slight smile. “Yeah, not this time unfortunately. But is it cool if I have it? I’m kinda into swords.”

“With the name al-Sayf I’d hope,” Yusuf teased him.

“No that’s literally why I like swords,” Malik said plain-faced and they both laughed. “See if I can't clean it up a bit. Make a good souvenir from Dörtyol if nothing else.”

“Of course you can have it,” Ubaid said.

“Great,” Malik said.

“Alright, everyone have some water and then let’s get back to the car,” Yusuf handed them both water bottles. Malik drank gratefully. Once everyone was hydrated and they made sure they left no garbage behind they headed back down the mountain trail to the sedan.


	3. Sword of the Eagle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Vibrates excitedly*
> 
> Modern person having to deal with someone from the past is a favorite trope lols

Come the fresh morning Malik had two tasks once he got back from mosque with the Tazim men. One was to start cleaning the sword and the other was to start digitizing his notes. He still didn't think the sword was very old or valuable so he wasn't super worried about the restoration process. But at the least he could clean it up and make it a display piece for back home. Which was why the first thing he did was fill up a bucket with water and baking soda and let one end soak in it. It wouldn't damage the sword beyond making it wet and the baking soda would start to break down the grime, dirt, and hopefullly what Malik thought was blood.

While the sword was soaking Malik was using his lap desk sitting right in front of the old window unit and working on his notes. He copied the notes he'd taken yesterday to his notes on his computer while downloading the five hundred pictures he'd taken yesterday. Once they'd downloaded he started going through them, finding the best ones.

Unfortunately, the lighting hadn't been that good yesterday. He'd known that but hoped it wouldn't have mattered. He had some good pictures closer to the flash light but a lot of them were dark and while Malik’s eye had been able to see it pretty well the digital camera had failed to do so. Only about a quarter of his photos were usable and none of the ones of the white rock pit were useable at all.

Malik was disheartened at first before realizing that since they were bad that meant he could just go back and take more! He wrote in his field notes book which areas of the room he needed pictures of still.

After lunch he took the sword out of the bucket and wiped it off. “Huh, you’re kinda pretty,” he said as he cleaned the baking soda off the hilt. There was still nasty dirt all over it but he could see the metal of the hilt now. It looked like a gilt metal of some sort. He wiggled the sword in the scabbard to try and pull it all the way out. 

With a few grunts and thanks to some water getting into the scabbard he managed to yank the sword out of the scabbard. “Yeah, just a mameluke,” he said, disappointed. “Sorry bud, wish you were something cooler,” he put the sword blade first and the scabbard into the bucket along with some more baking soda. He'd check on it in a while.

When it wasn't so ungodly hot out Malik finally ventured out of his room and went out to just wander the city a little. It was a nice place and the people friendly even with his _horrendous _American accent all over his Turkish. He'd gotten a lot better in the past two weeks thanks to speaking it exclusively at his home stay since Yusuf only spoke some English and his parents no English. 

He ended up finding a bar and getting food and drink for dinner. A live band played and he made some bar friends who were talkative drunks and got him to drink probably _too_ much raki.

Far later than he intended he stumbled out of the bar. It took him three times to correctly dial Yusuf’s number and about fifteen minutes to get around to asking for a ride. Mostly because Malik kept just talking about random shit and was just sort of gay over the phone and making Yusuf laugh. Malik was out at home but didn't talk about it here in Turkey. He hadn't said anything too obscene, just told Yusuf he was handsome and had pretty blue eyes and was funny and had a nice beard. He'd just said all those things about twelve times.

Yusuf arrived with his moped and all Malik had to do was hold on. He ended up with his face pressed into the back of his shoulder because the movement of the moped made him nauseous. Yusuf smelled nice.

Before he knew it they were home and Yusuf just found Malik’s drunkenness amusing and helped him into his room. Malik just took off his shoes before face planting into the bed.

When Yusuf knocked early for dawn prayer Malik was still fast asleep. “Whatttt?” he groaned from the bed.

“You coming to mosque?” Yusuf called.

Malik blinked. “No,” and he rolled over, “hung over.” He said it loud enough for Yusuf to hear and heard him laugh through the door. Malik went back to sleep soundly.

He only woke when the heat became unbearable and he had to get up and turn on the AC. He tore his shirt off and stood in front of the cold air to help dry his sweaty skin. Blinking in the bright light he grabbed around for his sunglasses, found them, and glued them to his eyeballs. Then he put on some new clothes and went to beg Jawna for some food because he was starving and had missed breakfast. She just tutted him gently and gave him a carby meal with rice and, of course, some delicious bread and cheese.

Once Malik was fed and feeling not so hung over with a belly full of food he went back to his room and picked up the sword out of the bucket. He wiped the baking soda and water off but it was still nasty. He'd change the water out later. In the meantime he just threw the water out the window. He ended up taking a shower and laying in bed most of the day watching American cartoons on a pirate site before it was time for dinner.

Thankfully the next day he was over his hangover and could get back to work. That was mostly research of other whitesmith forges and cross referencing pictures from there to the Tazim forge. He made more notes and wrote about his day yesterday in his journal.

After lunch he turned his attention to the sword while watching something on his laptop. He got out his tools for careful cleaning of historically significant relics and more water and baking soda. It was some busy work to do he stopped every few minutes to watch his show before going back it.

The hilt was a real mess. Just caked in dried dirt and disgusting grease and grime and some blood that had solidified into something nearly like stone while it had been in the white rock pit. He just carefully chipped it away and used a toothbrush and fine tooth picker comb to scrap it clean.

Around dinner time he’d cleaned half of the hilt and only then did he really look at it. “Wow,” he said. The hilt had really good craftsmanship to it and surprisingly the pommel was made of some sort of porous stone like pumice but it glittered like white rock. The metal part was gilt, probably iron or steel, but with actually several large faceted gemstones imbedded in the metal. The facets just made Malik think it was a newer sword all the more and the gaudiness of it meant it was probably some sort of ceremonial sword. He rubbed the grime off one last time on this side of the hilt, the gilt gleaming in the light of the ceiling light. And it had a slight shimmering quality like the white rock in the pit. He was sure it was because powdered white rock had the consistency of fine glitter and was thus difficult to remove completely without multiple washes.

“You’re actually real pretty,” he said to the sword in English. “Dunno how you ended up in that pit but,” he shrugged. “You'll be a good souvenir. Kadar is going to lose his mind when he sees you. He'll be so jealous,” he laughed a little. Then he got up from the floor, put the sword aside, and went to go have dinner with the Tazims.

The next day Malik planned to visit the forge the following morning. He went out and bought some equipment he might need. Mostly a bigger backpack and a high luminosity flashlight with a removable battery he bought a spare of. He got all his equipment in order and spent the rest of the day watching football with Yusuf and Ubaid between two Turkish teams. Once he could finally get away he returned to his room and started cleaning the other side of the hilt. He removed about half the dirt before going to bed.

The trek up to the white rock forge was even worse that day. Yusuf had work so it was just Malik and Ubaid so Malik had to carry most of everything. Ubaid carried their food and half their water but Malik had to carry the rest plus his equipment. It took them two hours to reach the forge that time and Malik needed about half an hour to recover before he could actually start to work.

He set up his tripod with his camera and directed the flashlight to points of interest. It was as bright as natural sunlight with the flashlight on what he pointed it at and could take good pictures of the forge. He spent most of the day taking pictures and rubbings in the forge. In the afternoon he started emptying the pit in the room so he could see the entire thing without the white rock dust obscuring it.

Malik opted to leave any undrunk water and some of his heavier equipment in the oven. No one came up here and if someone did steal it tripods and big flashlights weren't super expensive. That would also be less weight to carry up the next time.

Upon arriving back home Malik attempted to wash off the white rock dust all over him. He managed it but like the sword, there was still residue all over his clothes, skin, and boots. He'd be like a sparkly vampire for a few days because of that. He slept good that night.

In the morning he immediately set to work on his notes and research. He worked furiously all morning and in the afternoon Yusuf came and dragged him west out to a beach to hang out with some friends. Malik ended up getting a mild sunburn for his troubles. After dinner back home he worked a bit more on cleaning the sword.

Over the next week, the pattern continued. Malik would get up, spend the morning working and after lunch do something else, either cleaning the sword and going and doing something in the city. He and Ubaid went up to the forge two more times that week. Malik also made significant headway on the sword, cleaning the entire hilt and most of the scabbard. Cleaning the inside of the scabbard was easier said than done thanks to its curved shape but he just worked on it a bit at a time. 

The next week was much the same except Malik turned his attention to the forge’s entrance and the fresco murals painted so beautifully across it. He also started trying to clean the blade itself. But the damn thing was stubborn and no matter how much he scrubbed or rubbed the rust wouldn't come up. It was frustrating.

One day he was so furiously trying to clean off the rust that his hand slipped. He let out a yell as it sliced his hand and he dropped the sword. He rushed out of the room to find Jawna to help him clean the wound and let her coo over him as he blubbered at the cut on his hand.

He also went and got a tetanus booster.

When he came back from the clinic he found the sword where he’d left it. “Huh,” he picked it up. He’d cut himself on the backside of the curve. Normally mamelukes were single-edged, like most sabers and scimitars, but this one had an edge on both sides, not unlike a more traditional wedge-shaped sword. “Who made you like that, huh? And why? That’s so weird. Who makes a curved sword with two edges?” There was, of course, no answer. He put the sword back in its scabbard. He'd work on it again later. His hand hurt still and he should probably clean up the blood on the floor.

Except there was no blood on the floor. He knew for sure he’d bled on the floor. Maybe he’d exaggerated. Being cut made him think he'd bled more than he actually had.

The next few days he worked to clean the rust off the sword blade when he had some downtime. He was rewarded for his effort with several more cuts on the hand and one on the top of his arm. Nothing too serious beyond a yelp of pain and running to Jawna for sympathy and her to bandage him up and give him some mother's attention for his slips. 

But it was weird because sometimes he wasn't even sure how the sword cut him. A few he absolutely deserved by handling it stupidly. But several it was like the sword moved to knick his finger. He knew that was impossible but still. 

The rust still didn't come off no matter how much he cleaned it and he was starting to get frustrated with it. So he just started keeping it sheathed and cleaning the hilt and scabbard because at least that he could clean.

The sword itself was beautiful honestly. Under all the dirt and caked-on grime the scabbard was lacquered red with a white stripe and studded with what could have been round polished jewels or colored glass. The end was capped with gold and it had a golden spine shaped like a flowering vine. The hilt was equally ornate, pretty and gilt with several faceted gems or colored glass. The pommel ended in a hooked claw shaped like an eagle’s head, the beak perfectly shaped for ripping and tearing. Malik didn't know what an ornamental sword like this one needed a pommel claw for. But it made it all the prettier since the eagle was done in a lifelike cast and like the rest of the sword gilt in brilliant gold.

The craftsmanship put into it was insane and unlike anything he’d ever seen except in ancient epics. It looked almost like how Odysseus’ sword was described in the Iliad save for the shape. Or like the sword in the epic of Gilgamesh but it had the eagle hook at the pommel. Whoever had made this sword had put a lot of time into it. He also didn't know where something like this would come from other than a prop maker or something like that for how extravagant it was. It wasn't old enough to be anything but. That didn't explain what the hell it was or why it was a double-edged saber. 

After a few days of getting over his annoyance about not be able to get the rust off, he decided to take another stab at it.

When he unsheathed the sword the blade was clean.

There wasn't a speck of rust on the steel. It was shiny and new and when Malik gently tested the blade it was so sharp it gave him a paper cut just from touching it. “What the actual fuck?” He just looked at the sword in confusion. The last time he'd drawn the sword it had been a rusted mess.

He left the scabbard and went out to find Yusuf who was leaning close to the TV watching a football game. “Yusuf,” he said.

“Huh?” Yusuf looked up but was distracted by the game playing. Then his eyes darted to the sword. “Oh! You finally got the rust off! Awesome! Knew you could do it. Just took some elbow grease, yeah?”

Malik blinked, “I… so the sword has no rust to you too?”

“Uh, yeah Malik. You okay?”

Malik blinked some more, “Yeah. I guess I’m just in so much shock I finally got it clean I couldn't think straight,” he said. No way he could tell Yusuf that the sword had just untrusted _itself_. That would sound insane. “It’s nice right?”

“Yeah. It's cool. Did you need something?” He motioned with his head back to the football game.

“Oh. No, I just wanted to show you. Go ahead,” and he stepped back. Yusuf immediately returned his attention to the TV and Malik slowly went back to his room.

He held the sword gently across his palms, aware of how deathly sharp it was. “What happened to you? How did you unrust?” The sword just sat there across his palms. He shifted his hands a bit and cried out when the sword cut him, so clean was the cut he didn't even feel it at first. He tossed the sword onto the bed and left. “Jawnaaaa,” he called as he entered the kitchen where she was making dinner.

“Malik— did you cut yourself on that rusty sword again?” she scolded him and he just whined pathetically. She scolded him and then cooed over him, helping to clean his wound and like the grandma she was also gave some bread, jam, and nut butter. He thanked her before going back to his room.

“Stupid ass sword,” he muttered in English as he opened the door. He closed the door whining over the fresh cut on his hand. He needed to just keep it in its sheath. It was way too sharp to keep it out. He went back to the bed to do so but when he looked up… his sword was gone. “…. Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

Lying belly down on his bed with one of the GQ magazines open was.. a man. A naked man. Bronze skin and dark brown hair that curled around his ears. They looked over at Malik casually and his eyes were nearly golden they were so amber. “Welcome back, Malik,” he said in Arabic in a shockingly polite voice.

Malik stared and looked around to make sure he wasn't being punked. There was a naked guy in his room. A hot naked guy! A _really_ hot naked guy. Oh fuck. Oh no oh fuck. This was so bad. He didn't even want to think about how bad this was. On a scale of shitty to manageable this was get arrested and deported level. “W-what?” Malik managed to get out.

The man held up the magazine open to him. It had some well-dressed men on it. “Buy me this,” he said.

“What? No! What the fuck!” Only then did he realize he needed to lower his voice. “Who are you? What are you doing in my room?” he whisper yelled.

“You left me here,” he said and put the magazine back on the bed. He sat up. “It isn't my fault you left before I’d finished. Is your hand alright?”

“My hand— how do you know I cut my hand? Who are you? Where is my sword?”

The man blinked at him in annoyance. “_I_ am your sword. I’m a sentient weapon.”

Malik gaped at him. Just full-on jaw on the floor. “You’re _what?” _he squeaked. A sentient weapon!? Those were just things in stories. Odysseus had had a sentient weapon in the stories. So had Gilgamesh. It was said Julius Cesare had one and even Ghengis Khan. They appeared everywhere in mythos. Every legendary warrior had a sentient weapon and every evil in those stories wanted to possess it. Mythical weapons imbued with great ‘magical’ power infused with the soul of a sublime warrior giving the wielder superhuman abilities.

It was all stories. Everything about sentient weapons was a myth. There had never ever been a confirmed sentient weapon since the contemporary when people turned away from mysticism for morality based religion and science. They weren't _real_. 

The man cocked his head at Malik. “Malik?” he asked.

“I need to sit down,” he said and there was no chair in the room so he just slowly lowered himself onto the floor feeling dazed.

A moment passed and he looked up and saw the man had gotten up and was leaning down in front of him, a concerned look on his face. “Are you alright?”

“Y-you’re actually a living weapon?” his voice felt small.

“I am.” Malik just stared at him and oh no he was even prettier up close with smooth skin and long lashes, his dark hair curling around his face prettily. This wasn't at all fair. “My name is Altair by the way,” he added.

Malik rubbed his face. “What?” he felt so lost. So utterly confused and like he didn't know anything.

“My name. It’s Altair,” he said, slowly getting more annoyed with Malik for acting like a fool.

“Oh— okay. I— living weapon? Shit- oh shit,” he rubbed his face with both hands. Then he looked up at Altair and realized he was very naked. “You’re naked.”

“Well I was a sword until approximately three moments ago,” Altair said.

Malik pushed himself up numbly and shuffled over to his dresser. He pulled out a thobe he’d bought when he’d first come to Dörtyol to fit in a bit better with the local populace. “Put this on,” he said to the naked human-shaped living sword holy shit that sounded so out of this world.

Altair reached out, touched it but didn't take it. “No,” he said.

“What? Yes. Put it on.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Why not?” Malik demanded.

“It feels cheap,” he folded his arms and turned away, nose up snootily. “I’m better than that.”

Malik’s eye twitched. “You’re putting this on. You’re fucking naked in my room and I can’t have that.”

“I’m not wearing that cheap trash,” Altair said dismissively.

Malik scowled at him. “Yes you are you dumb ass hunk of metal,” and Malik attempted to wrestle it onto him. Altair was scrappy and batted at him which just freed up his hands for Malik to shove through the garment.

“Get off,” he said, trying to push Malik off. “I’m not wearing that.”

“Yes you are,” Malik snapped and they ended up scuffling a bit on the floor. Malik managed to yank his limbs through the sleeves and his head through the hole when he froze as someone knocked on the door.

“Malik? You okay in there? Mom said she heard some noises in here,” Yusuf asked, voice heavy with concern and it took Malik a moment for his brain to switch back over to Turkish.

“Ah- yeah, I’m fine,” he called back. “Just moving some stuff around.”

“You need help?”

“No!” he hoped it didn't sound panicked because he felt a bit panicked. 

“… Okay,” Yusuf said slowly. “Dinner is going to be ready soon.”

“Okay! I’ll be out in a minute,” Malik called and was glad when he heard Yusuf’s footsteps walk away. “Don’t get me into trouble, brat,” Malik hissed in Arabic and yanked the thobe the rest of the way down Altair’s body.

“Then get some class,” Altair glared back.

Malik frowned. “Enough. What the fuck? What did you do? What _are_ you? Actually, hold that thought. I need to go have dinner. Keep your damn clothes on.”

“Or what?” Altair growled.

“Or I’ll be pissed off,” Malik snapped. Altair folded his arms moodily as Malik climbed to his feet to go get ready for dinner.

“Everything alright, Malik?” Yusuf asked when he joined them at the table.

“Yes. Everything's fine,” he said shortly. He didn't really talk during dinner and just ate quickly in silence excusing himself as soon as it was socially appropriate. He didn't imagine the Tazims looking after him in concern as he quickly washed his dish in the sink and went back to his room.

Altair was sitting on the bed, naked, looking at the GQ magazine again. “Where are your clothes?” Malik asked. Altair just looked up at him and rose an eyebrow. Malik looked around and found the thobe on the floor by the bed. He picked it up. “Put it on,” he said sternly. Altair just looked at the thobe and then Malik like he was crazy. “Put the thobe on.”

“I can’t understand you,” Altair said in Arabic.

Malik blinked. Right. He just naturally switched to his shitty Turkish when talking with the Tazims. “You know damn well what I'm saying even when I talk Turkish,” and he motioned with the thobe again.

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“Stop being so fucking annoying. You want to get in trouble huh? Because that's what’s going to happen if you don't put this on.”

“Trouble with who?”

“The government. You're a naked man, in my room. Put on some damn clothes before I get arrested.” To say nothing for the fact that he was beautiful and that was a distraction for Malik who didn't need to be distracted when he was having a bit of a freak out over his sword turning into a sexy naked man! Who apparently was a sentient weapon!

Huffing Altair took the thobe and pulled it on. “Happy?”

“Yes, actually,” Malik said sternly. Altair’s lips twitched in something like a smile. “Now what are you doing?”

“Could you be more vague?”

“This,” Malik motioned sharply to Altair's form. “This body thing. You’re a sword.”

“You just took such good care of me after I’d been abandoned I wanted to see what you looked like and not just what your hands felt like, or your voice sounded like,” Altair said, surprisingly soft spoken and kind about it. Malik bristled in a flush high in his ears and across his face. That was the gayest thing he'd heard in months unless he was on a call with his brother. 

“Ah— oh— well— can you change back?”

“No.”

“No? What? Why not?”

“I don't have the energy to do so. It took me all the energy I had just to get here from my reserves and from you.”

“Well, then what? You need food?”

“No.”

“That isn't an answer,” Malik said sternly.

Altair frowned at him in annoyance. “You were much nicer to me before. If I knew you were an asshole I would have stayed rusted,” he said.

“Excuse me for being freaked out my _sword_ turned into a man. Which, by the way, _WHAT!?_ And second: HOW?”

“Magic,” Altair said.

“Magic isn't real,” Malik scowled at him.

Malik looked at him, rose his eyebrow and then motioned to himself. “Like you said, your sword turned into a man. Or rather, a man was turned into a sword and he turned back into a man. How do you think that happened?”

“Sentient weapons are myths and not real.”

“And yet here I am,” Altair stood up and Malik flustered when he stepped over to him and got real close, looking up at him. He was pretty short all things considered and the top of his head only came up to Malik’s chin. “You should be grateful.”

Malik bristled. Being mad was better than being turned on by the weird guy in his room. “Oh really now? How you figure that?”

“Because I’m a magic weapon. And judging by your reaction they don't make things like me anymore. I didn't understand you every time you spoke around me but I do know you're a man of history. You should be _thrilled_ I exist.”

Malik frowned at him, annoyed he made sense and annoyed he should have been too. “Okay, look,” he gently pushed Altair back and away. “Magic isn't a thing. Sentient swords are a thing in stories. And this country is super against homosexuality so you showing up _naked_ in my bed like nothing is wrong freaks me out because if _anyone_ found you here I’d be in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh,” Altair said slowly. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are they like that?”

“Because they're stupid.”

“They are,” Altair nodded.

“So you need to not be naked. I don't want to be thrown in jail _or_ deported.”

“I don't want you to either,” Altair said and Malik hated he got all flustered when Altair put his hand on Malik’s chest, worry written across his face.

“So you’ll not try to take your clothes off all the time?”

“I guess,” Altair sighed. “Buy me nicer ones.”

“Sure, whatever. Now can you turn back into a sword?”

“No.”

“Right, energy thing. So what do you need to get more energy?”

“I need to feed.” The way he said it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up on end.

“I can get you food.”

“No. I don't eat,” he said.

“But you just said-

“My sustenance is no longer food.”

Malik rolled his eyes. “Okay, then what _do_ you eat you picky asshole?”

“Blood,” Altair said with a straight face.

Malik blanched. “So you’re a vampire?”

“A what?”

“You know, a vampire,” Malik said again.

Altair blinked in confusion. “I don't know what that word means. What is a vampire?”

“Uh— it’s a monster that drinks blood for food.”

“Oh, you mean an ekkimu? Those are still around?”

“Wha- actually you know what, no. I don't want to know. We’ll just go with yeah, like that.”

“And I’m not quite like that. I don't have to bite someone like they do. And I don't need much to return to my natural state. It takes much more energy to become this altered state,” Altair said.

“But you can't turn back into a sword without blood?” Malik clarified.

“No.”

Malik sighed. “Does it matter what sort?”

“No.”

Malik sighed again. There was nowhere to get _blood_ this time of night. All the butchers were closed for the night and Jawna had used the last blood she’d bought for blood pudding last week. “So that means… you need my blood.”

“If you don't want me here… yes.”

Malik rubbed his face. “Okay. How about this. I’ll get you some blood tomorrow but you absolutely _cannot_ just turn into a person whenever you want.” Altair made an annoyed face but nodded. “Wait here,” he ordered and left his room quietly, went into the bathroom and found the medical kit Jawna used to patch him up from Altair cutting him several times. In it there was some roll bandages, some medical tape, and some antiseptic. He grabbed all of those and went back into his room, closing the door as softly as he could.

Altair was waiting for him when he came back and his eyes brightened with interest as Malik sat everything down and rolled up his sleeve to over his bicep. He used some of the bandages to wipe part of his skin with the antiseptic. “What’s that?” Altair asked as Malik opened his bedside drawer and pulled out his pocket knife. “Oh!” he cried in delight when Malik pushed the button on the side and the knife unfolded. “Magic,” he declared.

“Not magic, just some springs,” Malik said and wiped down the blade with antiseptic too, letting it air dry.

“Springs? How do you fit all that water in there?”

“… Nevermind,” Malik sighed. Then he clenched his jaw and put the knife against the skin of his bicep. He felt the touch of the cool steel but his hand hesitated. He just needed to get it over with. 

His hand wouldn't move.

He hissed in annoyance when he lowered his hand. He couldn't just maim himself like that. “Malik?” Altair asked and sat on the bed next to him.

“Just a second. It isn't easy to just cut yourself,” Malik said. Unless you were a cutter, he supposed. Malik had never done that sort of self-destructive behavior. He lifted the knife back up to try again and again his hand wouldn't move even when he tried to will it. He sighed heavily and dropped his hand again.

“Do you want me to do it?” Altair asked him.

Malik didn't totally trust him. “You drink blood _and_ you’re a sword. How do I know you won’t just cut me up?”

“If I wanted to do that I would have done it already,” Altair said. “No one touches me unless I allow them to.” Malik couldn't dispute that. “I am very precise and light. You won't even feel it.”

“I doubt that,” but Malik still handed him the knife. “Don’t touch the blade and cut where I wiped,” he instructed.

Altair took the knife with a serious face, nodding. He held the little pocket knife with what looked like great reverence. He put his hand on the front of Malik’s arm and very carefully put the knife against his skin. Malik looked away. “Do you want me to warn you?” Altair asked him.

“No, just do it,” Malik said and squeezed his eyes shut. Altair didn't respond there was at once just a faint searing sensation on Malik’s left arm as Altair cut a wide mark across his bicep. He hadn't even felt the cut. The skin around the cut hurt but it had been shockingly painless. He looked back and saw Altair draw the knife back. Malik stared when he licked the blade, his tongue against the sharp edge, leaving no trace of his own blood on the knife and carefully folded it back up.

Malik swallowed when Altair leaned over and licked up his arm to catch where the blood was starting to trickle out and seep down the curve of his arm. Malik was very aware of Altair’s tongue on his skin and the way his arm never actually got bloody. He was also very aware of how oddly reverent Altair seemed about the entire thing. It reminded Malik of his Catholic friends telling him about taking communion at church. A holy act of taking something into their body.

Malik was getting the weirdest and most awkward boner in existence about the entire thing. It was making him _really_ uncomfortable.

After a minute Malik cleared his throat. “You— ah, you done?” he didn't know why he was so flustered by this. Why would he be flustered? This was weird and he really didn't like this _at all_. Altair looked up at him, tongue splayed against his arm. Was this why people had vampire fetishes? Shit, this was why people had vampire fetishes.

“Almost,” Altair said softly and looked away from him. Thank _god_.

Another awkward (at least for Malik) minute passed. The bleeding had subsided quite a bit to his surprise when Altair pulled away and licked his lips, making sure he got every drop. Malik quietly had a chub now too and wow he hated that so much. “Done now?”

“Yes,” Altair said, his eyes lidded in content. “A good snack if nothing else.”

Malik refrained from saying the actual first thing on his mind. Instead, he said, “Good, don't get used to it.” And he quickly applied more antiseptic, cursing at the stinging pain of it and wrapped his arm in the bandages. “Now you going to change back into a sword?”

“I suppose. I did say I would,” Altair sighed. “I did rather miss being human,” he said and stretched out his arm in front of him to look at his hand. “It’s nice to be able to see what’s going on and not rely solely on touch or vibrations to understand the world.”

“Yeah— well- later, when the family isn't home.”

“Finnne,” he said as a complaint and leaned back on one arm on the bed. Malik hated it was a distracting motion. “I suppose you aren't that bad of a master,” and Malik was sure he blacked out for a second because the next second Altair was gone. In his place was the sword, resting innocently on the sheet, in its vibrant, jewel-studded, red scabbard.

Malik stared at where he’d been. “What the actual _fuck?” _he asked the room in English. He just could not deal. He ended up putting the sword in his dresser and closing the drawer.

He poked his head out of the room. He heard the TV on in the living room. Now and then he heard the Tazims laugh at some show on it. Okay good. They were none the wiser. That was how he wanted it.

Malik ended up pacing back and forth in his room for a while, stressed beyond belief by the fact that his sword could just, at will, become a naked man. What was he going to do about this? He’d told Altair he would get him blood. How would he do that? Could he just have him around in the room? A thousand other questions raced through his mind as he calmed down a bit now that his initial panic was over. Like how old was he? What sort of first-hand experiences did he have? 

Malik stopped pacing at that thought. Altair could potentially be a mother lode. First-hand accounts of whatever time he was from. Deep insight on whatever time he was from that might be lost to them. But it was a long time ago. Would he remember? Did he have memories as a sword? Had he forgotten thanks to the time between then and now?

By the time it was bedtime Malik was beyond curious and less stressed about the naked man thing. He just had to get Altair a nicer set of clothes and bam, problem fixed. He could do that.

He brushed his teeth, said goodnight to the Tazims, and got into bed. But he ended up staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. His mind was abuzz with a thousand questions and what this could mean for his research. What this could mean for his _career_. If he had real, tangible proof, of what he’d come out here to study and not just pissing in the wind they’d have to take him seriously. They’d realize his ideas were right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes Malik: this is why people have vampire fetishes lols


	4. A Lesser World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!

There was traffic out of the city. Malik just looked out the window while Ubaid drove. Ubaid had some talk show on but Malik had his headphones on. They were both slightly hung over from the night before and were grateful to not be talking to each other. Malik had even gotten a bigger cup of cold brew from some more modern coffee shop to have later. He wasn’t used to raki or the amount of it Turkish guys could drink.

It wasn't yet midday by the time they got to the mountain where Ubaid finally pulled over. “You don’t have to come,” Malik said, turning in his seat, speaking for the first time all car ride.

“Are you sure?” Ubaid asked.

“Yes. It’s such a long way and I know it is difficult for you. If you want to go back for a few hours I’d understand.”

Ubaid stroked his beard slowly. “You’re sure? I can come with you.”

“I know the way. And it’s just going to be me freaking out about rocks-” That made Ubaid laugh. “Nothing very exciting.”

Still chuckling Ubaid nodded. “Alright. What time should I come pick you up?”

Malik looked at his phone to check the time. “I’d say like five?” That would give him plenty of time to get up to the forge, do everything he needed to do, and come back down. “If I need you to come sooner I can contact you,” he added. He'd bought a fairly cheap satellite phone years ago when he’d gone on a trip out into the American wilderness as a college kid. It still worked and he kept it around just for instances like this.

“Alright,” Ubaid said. “If you’re sure-

“I am. I’ll be fine,” Malik assured him.

“Okay then,” and with that Malik got out of the car.

Malik had put his bag in the trunk before Ubaid had seen this morning as he was shuffling around for breakfast. He hadn’t wanted Ubaid to see he’d brought the sword with him. He didn't want the questions. He had tied it to the side of his bag and from one side it was invisible but from the other it was an obvious red scabbard. The curve made the tip stick out a little but Ubaid wouldn’t notice that. “I’ll see you back here at five,” Malik called before going up the trail and heard the car dig into the gravel and drive on.

Once he was a ways up the trail and far from the road he unslung his backpack. It had been two days since he’d first fed Altair blood and had just been too busy to get any yesterday and he hadn’t transformed out of spite, which was good. Before getting into his cups with Yusuf and some of his friends and Ubaid he’d remembered to buy some sheep’s blood before dinner for today.

He unzipped his backpack and pulled out the quart container wrapped in cellophane. It was starting coagulate but hopefully Altair wouldn't care. Blood was blood right? He just knew he didn't want to watch Altair drink it. That would be… horrifying. Especially with the chunks in it. He also hadn't brought anything to clean him up with should be get it all over himself. So he just opened the quart container, took Altair off his backpack, and stuck the tip of the scabbard into it.

He waited and at first nothing happened. For a wild moment he thought he’d hallucinated everything from the other day. Then the blood started to go down. It wasn't instantly gone and was instead a slow drain from all sides. It took Altair about two minutes to drain the entire container so there was only residue at the bottom and along the sides. “Okay. I fed you, now come yell at me about not doing it sooner, or whatever,” Malik said with resignation.

Like the first time he’d seen Altair turn back into a sword he felt like he’d just lost seconds of time. Like he just spontaneously blacked out for a few seconds. One second Altair was a sword. Then he blinked and he was a person, a naked person, standing in front of him.

“Yell at you? You gave me blood so close together. Why would I be mad at that?”

“Oh. Well, it’s been two days.”

“It has?”

“I’m guessing you didn't feel that?”

“I am pretty sure I told you I feel time differently than you when in my true form,” Altair said.

“Oh. Well— put these on,” he offered Altair the pants and shirt he’d bought the other day and some boxers. He’d gone out and bought a new pair of silky ones just so he wouldn’t fucking complain about having to wear underwear. Fucking annoying ass sword.

Altair pulled on the clothes. “Where are we? What are we doing out here?”

“This is the way to the forge,” Malik said. “And I figured you'd like to walk around somewhere not my room.”

“Oh,” he looked around. “We’re going to walk?”

“Yes.” Altair didn't say anything, he just sucked his teeth a little. “C’mon, it’s a ways,” and he motioned to Altair. When he didn’t follow immeditely Malik grabbed his wrist and pulled him along, sensing Altair was going to be difficult about it.

Turned out Altair was completely useless when it came to any sort of hiking. He needed to stop way before Malik did and was out of breath and whiny about it. “I thought only great fighters were put in living weapons,” Malik said as he waited for Altair to catch his breath and sit on a big rock.

“I’m sorry. You try going for a hike after nine hundred years of sedentary life as a bar of steel,” Altair snapped at him. “I haven’t had to do any physical activity since I was made. Ugh.”

Malik tried not to be annoyed but Altair had a point. “Here,” Malik offered him a bottle of water. Altair looked at it, took it and figured out the screw cap. “Don’t chug it,” he grabbed it before Altair could do so.

“What? I was drinking that,” Altair complained.

“You’ll throw up drinking that fast. Especially on a stomach full of blood. I don’t want to see bloody vomit.”

“Malik, I didn’t drink the blood; I absorbed it. It doesn't just go into my stomach if I absorb it,” Altair rolled his eyes.

“Still. You’ll make yourself sick,” Malik handed him the bottle back. “Small sips.” Altair scowled but did start taking smaller sips of water until he just closed it and handed it back to him. “Ready?”

“You should have just carried me up there,” Altair grumbled.

“Well I’ll carry you down. Stop belly aching.” He gave Altair's thigh a little smack. “C’mon, I want to get up there before it gets unbearably hot.”

“Finnne,” Altair whined and got up, following him.

They had to stop a few more times the way up. Malik wasn’t as annoyed the other times because Altair did have a point. It was an infuriating point but it was a good point.

They arrived at the forge well before noon and Malik put his bag down in the shade. “Here we are,” he said.

“This is the white rock forge?” Altair asked, looking around.

“What’s left of it, yes.”

Altair walked into the front room with the frescos. He put his hand on the wall. “No one uses this anymore?” Altair asked, his voice melancholy.

“No.”

“So people don't use magic either?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Altair looked at Malik.

“Why what?”

“What happened to magic? I didn’t see any signs of mythical beasts or even that there were spirits living in these mountains. Where did everything go?”

“I don’t have a good answer for that. Mostly organized religion and science.”

“That’s stupid. And what religion? Huh?”

“Christianity, Catholicism-

“Yeshua was a fucking warlock?”

“Who?”

Altair sputtered in annoyance. “Jesus.”

“What? No he wasn’t.”

“You want to tell me that a man who could walk on water, turn water into wine, stilled a storm, and rose people from the dead wasn’t a warlock? Really? He was only the most famous necromancer in the world.”

“…. You’re joking.”

“No,” Altair gave him a look.

“He’s the center of a religion,” Malik said as if that explained it.

“No shit. He was a seriously powerful warlock.”

“But… wait, go back.”

“To which part? The part where you’re an idiot? Or the part where Jesus was a necromancer?”

“That part! What the fuck do you mean Jesus was a necromancer?”

“Well yeah. Jewish people are, inherently, magically capable. That was why they didn’t follow multiple gods. They knew humans could be more powerful and capable. They worshiped their one god and it kinda spilled over into other religions but yeah, Jesus was a warlock.”

Malik just stared, slack jawed. “Hold on. If you were made in the ninth century how do you know that?”

“My grandfather was a warlock, so was his father and his father and so on.” Malik felt himself starting to get a headache. “This is obviously too hard for your modern brain to comprehend; but magic is real, and it has always been real. It is way more real than the fake monolithic gods humans started worshiping in the past two thousand years.”

Malik just sat down against the wall. “But— where did it go?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Altair said. “Even when I was alive there were magical beasts. The lady on the mountain I grew up on raised griffins. My nanny was a jinn who owed my mother a favor. There were fairies at night that would light up the fields and keep away the bugs. You said there is no more magic so I have the same question: where did it go?”

Malik stared at him. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“What would I get from lying? You are my wielder. What’s the point of lying to you?” Malik wasn’t quite sure how to take that. He looked back at the fresco and touched it. “A place like this would have been somewhere magic flowed out of into the world. Magic shaped by human hands. To find it dead, lifeless, and empty…” he sighed. “Did you need me? Being here upsets me.”

Malik was still turned all upsidedown and around. Everything Altair had just said was fantastic and impossible but he also didn't detect any lying from him. To Altair it was the truth. He could imagine why it would be upsetting. To learn that your way of life was dead and gone… that was sad.

Malik got to his feet and went over to him. “I’m sorry,” he said and hugged him across the chest. Altair stiffened in confusion before reaching up and putting his hand on Malik’s arm as he relaxed.

“It isn’t your fault. You aren’t why people forgot about magic,” he said softly.

“I did hope you would help me. In here,” and he pulled Altair into the forge. He set up the big flashlight and it illuminated the forge.

“What is that? Are you sure it isn’t magic?”

“It isn’t. It’s technology. Electricity makes it work.”

“What is… electroncity?”

“Electricity,” Malik said again. “And it’s like… like…” he tried to think of how to explain it so Altair would understand. “We don’t have magic but while you were asleep we learned to control tiny pieces of lightning and make them run along little strips of metal that make things work.”

“That sounds like magic,” Altair protested.

“I’ll show you a picture of a machine when we’re home. It isn’t magic. Just science. Now this. What is this?” Malik pulled him over to the pit in the floor.

Altair squatted next to the pit and touched the metal. Standing behind him Malik saw shapes glowing softly along his spine through his shirt. That would have to wait. He pulled out his notebook. Altair brushed dirt aside to look better at the markings on the pit and the metal around the pit. “I don’t know exactly what it says. It’s written in a language warlocks and mages used and might be even more dirivitive than that as specific to star smiths,” he said. “But I know this forge didn’t make things like me. It being in a closed place makes me think this forge specialized in tools.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because living weapons needed access to the sky.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They just did.”

“You don’t know a lot about the forges do you?”

“I died and was reborn in one; I didn’t use one,” Altair looked over his shoulder at him, his amber eyes seemed to be glowing too. “I never went to a tool forge but once I went with my father to a weapon star forge. It looked similar to this,” he looked around. “But it didn’t have that,” he pointed at the oven. “So this must be a tool forge,” he stood up. “They’d make axes that never grew dull in places like this, saws with ten thousand teeth, nails that hammered themselves, tools as light as air, kitchen knives that changed shape depending on what you were cutting. That sort of thing.”

“What’s the point of the pit?”

“It was a raw material pit I assume,” Altair said, picking up some of the white rock.

“And you don’t know what the oven is for?”

“No. I’ve never seen an oven like that before.”

“Hmmm. Any guesses?”

“Used to hold liquids at high temperatures?”

“Like?”

“Liquid starlight, molten white rock, tea? I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” well this was more enlightening than Malik could get on his own. “And out here,” he grabbed Altair’s shoulder and helped him up, pulling him to the entrance hall. “What are these frescos?”

“Miners,” Altair pointed at the one of the men laboring for white rock. “That’s a star caller,” he touched the depiction of the woman surrounded by the shards of floating white rock. “Ordinary by the look.”

“Ordinary?”

“Had she been anointed she’d be marked with wings. The forge I was made in had an anointed star caller,” Altair touched the fresco.

“What’s the difference?”

“Hmmm... I don’t remember.”

“What?”

“I don’t remember. It was told to me a long time ago. I just remember some were anointed and some weren’t.”

“And what about this one?” Malik turned him to look at the opposite wall.

“Well that’s obvious. It’s a bunch of smiths making tools. Yeah see, they have hammers and hoes and pickaxes here,” he pointed at some of the destroyed fresco. “This was a tool forge. Explains why they didn’t have an anointed star caller.”

“And this?” Malik motioned to the rest of the fresco where the weapons were being put on an altar like they were being worshipped and there were dead beings beneath them.

Altair looked at it for a long while. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Only weapons were made living. I never heard of a living tool. I suppose it could have been possible. Maybe it was done after my time,” he frowned. “But that’s my best guess on that,” he shrugged.

“But living tools were possible?”

“In theory I suppose. But you wouldn’t usually want to sacrifice a master crafter I would think. You’d want them around to keep making.”

“But not a skilled swordsman?” Malik asked.

Altair looked down, hand still on the fresco. “Anyone can become a skilled swordsman,” he said softly. “You can learn the forms, follow the steps. Not anyone can be a master crafter. To lose one would make the world lesser.”

“So then it isn’t lesser when a great swordsman leaves the world?” Malik asked, curious. Altair was somber.

“You don’t lose them,” Altair said but it didn’t sound like his own words. It sounded like he was reciting something that had been said to him many times. “They become a figment of war, and with that they become a god.” Malik didn’t comment on how that sounded hypocritical. That the same could be said for anyone, for a marker or a warrior. That was just what had been fed to Altair.

“A god?” he asked instead.

“Well, yeah,” Altair said thoughtfully. “Living weapons were revered as pseudo gods. They were the closest things humans got to actual immortality, perfection. And what is a god if not perfection?”

“So you... think you’re a god?” Malik ventured.

Altair didn’t answer right away. Then he turned and scowled at Malik, his amber eyes sharp as his steel. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who hasn’t acted like I could be,” he said.

“Oh— well... I’m not really religious,” he said.

Altair scoffed. “Worship is hardly religious. That is just the facet you see it through.”

“Huh,” Malik said. “Can you tell me anything else about the fresco?”

Altair looked it over, “Nothing that wouldn’t be obvious. Are you done with me now? I don’t want to be here like this.”

“Yeah, sure,” Malik said. Altair came over to him and grabbed his hand. Malik didn’t understand why and then he blinked and was holding Altair’s hilt in his hand. “Oh,” he said slowly. He hadn’t wanted to be dropped. That was sort of cute. “You could have said something,” he said gently to the sword, “I would have caught you,” and he rubbed his thumb across the head of the eagle at the pommel.

He strapped the sword back to his backpack and unpacked a bit more to take some more pictures, rubbings and notes. Once he’d unpacked he had lunch. It didn’t take much effort to spend the next few hours documenting the foyer to the forge and the crumbled outside building that led to it. He sat for the last while in front of one of the fresco walls, redrawing it on a sketch pad, and trying to draw the missing pieces that had already crumbled away.

At the time he told Ubaid he’d be waiting he was down by the road. He had to wait a few minutes but Ubaid did appear. “How did it go for you today?” Ubaid asked after Malik threw his bag into the trunk and got into the passenger seat.

“Great,” Malik said. “I documented the entrance. That’ll keep me busy for a while. And I got some insight on the oven.” Ubaid started driving.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.”

“What was that?”

“You want to know?”

“It is my forge. I might as well know what’s there,” Ubaid said gravely.

“Oh. That makes sense. I can send you a copy of my research once it’s more finalized when I get back home so you can learn more about it. But I believe it was used to keep hot liquids at high temperatures.”

“Like what?”

“No idea. But I saw some markings I didn’t notice before.”

“Well, that’s something of interest at least. I’m glad the forge is proving useful to your research, even if it is empty,” Ubaid grimaced.

“Yes. It’s the best I’ve seen. You’ve been a great help, Ubaid.”

Ubaid just smiled. “Jawna said she was making kebab for dinner.”

“Sounds amazing,” Malik said brightly. The rest of the drive home was uneventful.


	5. The Great

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been truncated. You can find the NSFW version on my blog xazz.tumblr.com

Malik waited almost a week before feeding Altair again. He needed some time to compile his notes and he wanted to take some extra time to really study Altair’s sword form. Especially the stones in the hilt, scabbard and the etchings in the blade itself. While usually any etching or engraving in swords could weaken the steel Malik surmised that the etchings were, well, magic, and so made the blade itself stronger. And what he previously thought was simple glass gems in the hilt were indeed real gems. And the gems were visible along his spine when a human. Or he assumed so from seeing them at the white rock forge.

He’d also gone back to the white rock forge since. He’d told Ubaid he was just going to go up and back so he waited almost two hours in the car on the side of the road for Malik to come back. He collected a large container of the white rock dust from the pit. Altair’s spine, and maybe even his eyes, had reacted in there. He wanted to know if it was from the pit or from a large amount of white rock.

Once he had all his things in order he put the quart container of blood on the floor and dipped Altair into it. A second passed and then like it was going down a drain the blood was absorbed from all sides by Altair.

“I have some questions for you. Come out so I can talk to you,” Malik said, laying the sword on the floor. Altair didn’t do anything for a moment, seeming to think about it. Then Malik felt like he lost some time because at once Altair was just there. “I got you some new clothes,” he said when he saw Altair.

“Hmm?” That was of interest to him. Malik had gone and bought another almost expensive pair of shorts. He’d also bought Altair a new red and gold patterned thobe with golden embroidery on the sleeve cuffs. But Malik just gave him the pants. He wanted to see the stones on his skin. “Oooh, these feel nice.”

“They weren’t cheap,” Malik said. He didn’t even own a pair of shorts this expensive. He was satisfied when Altair put them on without complaining. He just looked away so his dick wouldn’t notice his nakedness so nearby. He needed to do some research. Now was not the time to be distracted.

“So, what questions did you want to ask me?” Altair asked, propping his hand up on his knee.

“If I showed you a map would you be able to point out the forge you were made in?”

“Probably.”

“Would you?”

Altair said nothing a moment and then, “If I did would you take me there?”

“Do you not want to go?” Altair sounded... Malik hated to use the word afraid but that was the best way to describe how Altair sounded.

“Would you want to return to the place you died?” Altair asked him.

“You made it sound like it didn’t matter before.”

Altair grimaced. “While my creation was a cause for celebration the events leading directly up to my death aren’t exactly shining points in my memory.”

Malik was very curious now. What had happened? What had Altair been through. All the stories about living weapons said they were humans sacrificed to become one. But what did that mean? How were they sacrificed? “Okay. I did hope you would but if it makes you upset I wouldn’t. I would just ask you to point the way.”

“I suppose I could do that,” Altair said.

“Okay. I’ll get a map and we’ll see. But not now. I had something else in mind.”

“Very well.”

Malik got up and went around behind him. On his back were all the stones used on the sword and the words engraved on the blade were tattooed onto his back in a shining gold. “These things,” he said and touched one of the stones. Altair’s shoulders hunched as he did, not expecting it.

“What about them?”

“Are they in your skin? Are they on top?”

“Oh, they’re in there,” Altair said. Malik still inspected them and saw that, horrifically, they were embedded into Altair’s flesh. And not just a little. These gems were large and deeply embedded so only the top cap was visible.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore, no,” Altair said, his skin prickling from Malik touching him.

“How’d they put them in there? What are they for?”

“Well a human doesn’t just become a sword,” Altair said, sarcastic little shit that he was. “You need to make a sword and you need to attune the human to the sword. The gemstones attune to each other between forms. And you don’t survive the attunement process,” he said it blank faced but Malik could tell by the tension in his shoulders he did not like speaking of this.

“I assume that’s by design?”

“It is part of the ritual,” was all Altair said.

Malik decided to see how much he could push. “Can you tell me about the ritual?”

Altair was quiet a while. “Do I have to?” he asked quietly, nervously.

“I am interested,” Malik said, working his thumb lightly into his shoulder. It had the opposite effect he was hoping for and Altair just got more tense.

“I— well- I— it was—“ he stumbled over his words and Malik could hear his discomfort. “I was trained for years by other master swordsmen from a time I was young at the behest of my grandfather,” he leaned forward some, to pull away. Malik let him go. “He was a great warlock. I powerful one. Once I was old enough and good enough with a sword he had me taken to the forge. And I— they uh-“ and Malik started when he was just gone. In his place lay Altair as a sword.

“Oh,” Malik said softly. He picked it up. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to bring up something painful.” From the way Altair spoke about it it sounded like becoming a sword was an honor. But just because it was an honor didn’t mean it wasn’t traumatizing. “We won’t talk about it,” he knew Altair could hear him. “If you can you can come back if you want to. We’ll talk about something else.”

Altair stayed a sword in his hand. Malik sighed softly. “Okay,” he said and put Altair on his bed before getting some of the cleaning supplies he had to clean Altair up originally. He just gave him a nice wipe off and got into the smaller crevasses in the ornate hilt with a fine brush. Altair didn’t change back still but when Malik handled him he wasn’t wicked sharp, just normal sword sharpness, so he wasn’t dangerous to even handle.

Malik sheathed Altair and left him on his bed. Then he went out into the city to a restaurant store and found some stuff for knife maintenance. Some steel polish and some various grit whetstones. He knew Altair didn’t need to be sharpened but he liked the attention Malik gave him as a sword so he might like that. And after Malik had brought up such a traumatic memory he felt bad and like he should do something nice for him.

Before he could do that he was intercepted by Jawna who was upset with Yusuf for being too busy to accompany her for the weekly shopping. And she didn’t like leaving the house without one of the men, even though it was fine. She just didn’t like it. Malik dropped his stuff off in his room before accompanying her out to go shopping. He realized quickly she mostly just wanted him to carry the groceries.

When they returned home Jawna started making dinner and Malik went back to his room to do some work since he’d done none all morning and had been with Jawna all afternoon. Altair was right where he’d left him on his bed. Malik picked him up. “Feeling better?” he asked. No answer of course but Malik just felt like he should talk to him. “I’m not mad if you’re worried,” he added. “I won’t ask about it again. And you can tell me if you want, when you want.” He got his lap desk and put his laptop on it, playing music over the speakers with Altair on the bed next to him. If he pulled back and looked at what he was doing he’d feel really stupid. But he had to remind himself Altair was a person who just preferred being a sword really. A bratty person sometimes but still a person. One who’d been alone a long time and before that sounded like he’d been neglected and maybe even abused. It was the least Malik could do.

—

In the afternoon the next day Malik took out the whetstones. He had read up on how to use them and watched three You Tube tutorials on how to use whetstones properly for swords. It was basically the same as sharpening a knife. You started at a low grit and then worked your way down to a super high grit that was nearly smooth.

Malik pulled Altair out of his scabbard and checked the edge. He was sharp but not the ludicrously sharp he had been the first day he’d been without rust where even just lightly touching the edge gave Malik a paper cut. He had the whetstones on a towel on the floor with some water and decided to just go for it.

At first his motions were rough and he wasn’t sure he was doing it right but he kept at it. As he moved to the next whetstone he felt like he knew what he was doing. Or rather he felt like his hand was being... guided, in some way. His motions were smoother and he knew exactly when he needed to switch sides or start working on the other side of the blade. He also knew when to stop and go to the next whetstone. He’d never used whetstones before, never sharpened a blade with them before. He didn’t know how he knew.

“Oh, magic, duh,” he said to himself, realizing Altair was probably guiding his hands. “I take it you like this then?” he asked Altair and found that amusing. A self sharpening sword liked being sharpened.

He went down to the highest grit and rubbed the sword against it on all four edges before he picked Altair up and wiped him off. The cloth tore just from the light touch and Malik jerked his hand back. He tested the edge and it was paper cut sharp. He finished wiping Altair off more carefully and sheathed him. Altair being so sharp made him very nervous.

He put away the whetstones and went back to lay on his bed to watch something, keeping Altair propped up against the side table. He was watching the Office, again, when he just felt hungry. Like just sudden, overwhelming hunger and his stomach hurt. What? He hadn’t been hungry. He’d had a big lunch and that had only been about an hour ago. How the hell was he hungry?

He looked over at Altair. “You doing that? Stop that.” He immediately wasn’t hungry anymore. That was super weird. “I don’t have any blood right now. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” Altair did nothing but that was good enough for Malik. He went back to the Office.

—

Malik kept Altair in his sword form two more days. He needed to come up with some actual questions for him that wouldn’t trigger him and an experiment or two he wanted to run on the giant gemstones embedded in his back. He also bought a mini fridge and a few quarts of blood from different butchers around the city to put them in. He wrote it off to the Tazims as he wanted to put some artifacts from the forge into them and see how they reacted. The Tazims didn’t know any better so didn’t argue with him.

He fed Altair a pint of blood in a different way. He wanted to see if Altair could out drink the rate of liquid falling. So he set Altair up in another bucket, put a bit on him so he knew to be ready, and then poured it down the length of the sword, tip first.

It didn’t even make it half way down the scabbard.

The pint was empty quickly and Malik picked Altair out of the bucket and put him on the floor. For a moment nothing happened. “What? Don’t want to come out now?” he teased.

Altair appeared on the floor next to him. He really wanted to record the process. Because there was no transformation. It was like a jump cut. One moment Altair was a sword, the next he was just there, or vice versa, but it felt like time had moved forward by a few seconds. But he didn’t have a good set up for that so it would have to wait. “Hey,” Malik said, “you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Altair said.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine,” he said again.

Malik pursed his lips a little. So he was a stoic bastard. Got it. “Well I’m glad you decided to ever come back out. I did want to take a look at you a bit more. Also,” he pulled up the shorts. Altair just wordlessly took them and put them on. “You’re not very talkative today,” he said slowly.

“I’m fine.”

“You broken? Because you’ve said that three times so far,” Malik said sarcastically.

Altair gave him a look. “I’m not. I’m just fine,” he folded his arms. Okay so they were just going to pretend like Altair hadn’t completely had a freak out and turned into a sword because Malik had brought up bad memories.

“Okay. Fine,” Malik didn’t let his annoyance show. “Now I want to look at your back. You can go lay on the bed if you want.”

“Will you play music?”

Malik chuckled. “Yes,” he said and climbed to his feet. Altair just stood up. Malik hated athletic people like Altair. Fuckers. He got his laptop and started playing some music as Altair laid out on the bed, stomach down, pillowing his head on his arms.

Malik kneeled on the bed next to him and only then was he aware of how gay this was. Altair was shirtless in just shorts and Malik could literally count on both hands how many pornos he’d watched that started not unlike this. That made him flustered. But there was nothing sexual about this! He wanted to do science here dammit, not get off.

Didn’t matter. As soon as he thought that it could be slightly sexual his dick was very sure he wasn’t going to forget it. He shifted awkwardly as he got a chub but refused to actually adjust himself because that would give it away.

Now that he was hyper aware of how nice Altair looked he felt very awkward leaning over him. He touched one of the gemstones. Each one was about the size of a golf ball and deeply embedded into his flesh. He very gently pulled at the skin around the edges and it was like when you pulled on your eyelid. You could see the pinkness of thin skin over flesh and the curve of your eyeball but nothing more. That was extra freaky honestly. But there was no way to take them out that didn’t include ripping them out.

And the marks he thought were originally tattoos were, in fact, not tattoos. But rather golden inlay. Again pressed right into his skin. They were the same beautiful golden inlay on the sword and towards his tail bone it looked not unlike the hilt decoration. Malik ran his fingers across the metal and it was as thin as paper and his finger nail barely able to find the edge even when he tried.

Altair didn’t really mind and other than a muscle twitching when he touched at first he didn’t move. When Malik looked he saw Altair had his eyes closed. Oh good.

Malik got off the bed and went to get his instruments and his journal. He sat next to Altair once he had his things and did his note taking. “What are the inlays for? You don’t have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable,” he added.

“Hmm?” Altair asked, eyes still closed.

“The metal.”

“They’re magical symbols. Something like they draw the body into shape with the sacrificial weapon.”

“And the gems?”

“Heh. Now that is powerful magic. I wouldn’t know,” he shrugged a little. “I wasn’t a warlock, just a swordsman.”

“Hmm. Okay,” Malik opened his laptop. “Sit up, come look at this,” he said and went to Google Maps. He pulled up a map of the Middle East and full screened the map. Altair came and sat next to him.

“What is this? How can you say this isn’t magic?” Altair asked, staring at the screen.

“Well... I guess you could call it magic. I don’t know how it works really I just use it.”

“So it is magic.”

“In its own way it’s magic,” Malik agreed. “It’s like... liiiike, I guess magic paper. You can look at all sorts of things on it and pictures and places. Or a tablet. Like this,” he pulled out his phone. “This is a little magic tablet,” and he woke it up. Altair’s eyes got big. It was pretty cute all things considered. “Right now it’s showing me a map of the area around us, see,” he pointed.

“Yes,” Altair nodded.

“Where, approximately, was your forge?”

Altair leaned closer. “There,” he poked the screen. “Ah! It looks like water,” he poked it a few more times, this time with greater force.

“Yes, don’t do that,” he grabbed Altair’s wrist. “It can damage the magic,” it was really a lot easier to just talk in terms Altair understood than try and explain technology. He could tell he’d need to bring this stuff to him slowly because he just had no concept, no way to even begin to understand what he was seeing.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he zoomed the map in. “Can you pinpoint it a bit more?”

“Woooow!” he cried in wonder when the map zoomed in. Malik smiled fondly. Fuck he was so cute. When he wasn’t being stoic he was so cute.

“Focus,” Malik elbowed him gently.

“Oh, yes. Hmm,” he put his finger on the screen but didn’t press too hard. He realized he couldn’t press it too hard. “In this area I think.”

“There’s nothing there.”

“Well it’s hard to know. I never saw it from this angle,” Altair frowned at him.

“So you’d recognize it from a standing view?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “At least if things haven’t changed in a thousand years,” he said unhelpfully and that made Malik grimace. Malik went to street view on the one road. “Wooooooah,” Altair said.

“Anything look familiar?” Malik turned the camera.

“It’s... hard to tell. There used to be a forest here.”

“A forest?”

“Yes. A big forest. My mother was from the forest. I don’t see any signs of a forest though.”

“Hmm, let’s try somewhere else,” and he went back to map view to pick another place to land in. Altair leaned over him, using his thigh to steady himself. Malik swallowed as he was so close. He smelled like nothing. Thank goodness! He didn’t know what he’d do if Altair smelled nice. He was still very pretty and distracting though. “H-how about this? Does this look familiar?” He needed to focus on what he actually wanted, which was to do research on white rock, not put his dick in something. At the mere thought of his dick in something he started to get a chub. Mother fucker!

“Hmm?” Altair leaned over to look at the screen. “That rise looks sort of familiar. There isn’t a lot of elevation change in the area so any hill is distinct,” he touched the screen to show.

“Cool. Great,” and he gently pushed Altair off him. So not the time. He went to map view as close as he could get and panned over to the hill. “Anything look familiar?”

“You can’t get to the other view?”

“No. This part of the world isn’t very well mapped and there are no roads out here. We’re lucky we could even see from that road.”

“Oh,” though it was clear Altair didn’t fully understand. He leaned back over Malik, this time putting his hand on the bed between his legs which was even worse than just on his thigh. “Hmm,” he looked at the screen intently and Malik was super aware of his body so close to him. He swallowed a few times waiting for Altair to look and also trying to think unsexy thoughts. “That might be something,” he pointed to behind the hill.

“Huh? Lemme see,” and he was glad he could push Altair away. “Those are some old Roman ruins.”

“No, they aren’t,” Altair said.

“They are.”

“Malik, I don’t understand this much but I take it this image is from far away?”

“Yes.”

“Marble doesn’t reflect light like that,” he pointed again. “It is earth stars.”

Malik leaned in closer and really looked at what it was. Roman ruins were visible from Google Earth but Altair was right. Marble didn’t look like that. “Huh. Well I’ll be damned-

“Please don’t be-

“You’re right,” Malik said, missing what he said almost entirely. “Huh. Wonder how anyone missed that. Usually when humans find ruins we go and explore them.”

“They don’t look very big. And if what you say is true and there is no more magic because of your religions then people probably destroyed or wiped the memory of magical things off the face of the world,” he frowned. “Which is a shame. I liked the forest that used to grow here.”

“Was it a magic forest?”

Altair gave him an annoyed look, “Every forest is magic,” he rolled his eyes.

“So isn’t.”

“Have you ever been in a forest?”

“There were woods around where I lived.”

“No. Like a forest. There’s a difference between a domesticated woods and a forest.”

Malik didn’t know enough to argue the point. “Well, no, I guess,” he shrugged.

“Exactly. Forests are older than humans. They house things older than humans. Like tree spirits,” then he frowned. “They must be all gone there now though,” he touched the screen with some melancholy. “I hope they just moved and weren’t killed.”

“Did everyone know about magic back then?”

“Of course,” Altair said. “It was part of life. But I guess as people forgot... they destroyed what should have been lived with.”

“Yeah. That sounds like humans, unfortunately,” Malik sighed. “But you being able to locate these ruins is great. You don’t have to come but I’m going to go see it, see what’s left at least. Will it look similar to the forge I took you to?”

“Parts of it. The pit at least. But weapon forges were different from tool forges. The pit will be there but... there are other things.”

“Like what— actually, never mind,” Malik realized that could lead to a bad memory and just stopped. “This was a great help.”

“Good,” and Altair stretched out next to him. Malik watched him, unable to look away.

He cleared his throat and made note of the exact coordinates of the ruins for later. He was already thinking about how he’d get out there. He’d have to rent an off road vehicle for a few days. A Jeep or Land Rover or something. Something that wouldn’t mind the rocky terrain beyond the road. He did some more note taking while Altair lay next to him against the wall. The bed wasn’t very large so he was pressed against Malik in some places and his head was near his crotch.

Malik bit his lip looking down at Altair who just had his eyes closed listening to the music Malik had going. He drummed his fingers on the lap desk before getting off the bed. Altair only moved to better lay on the bed. Bastard.

He went and got a few things from his equipment bag. “Hey, let me see your back again,” he said back at the edge of the bed.

Altair sighed and moved over. “When they said I’d be worshiped I hoped for more than idle experimental interest,” he muttered to himself.

“You’re a magic sword, not a god.”

“Same thing,” Altair grumbled.

“Not in this century it isn’t,” he said matter-of-factly.

Altair gave him a reproachful look through his long lashes. “Just because you’re a nonbeliever doesn’t mean you’re right,” he said which gave Malik a chill. He turned his head away. “I would get a wielder who didn’t worship,” Malik just barely heard him mutter.

“Is that why you’re such a brat sometimes? You want to be worshiped?” Malik asked him, his brain suddenly on fire because he had a great and horrible thought.

“Do you know I went through to become this? Beyond the ritual,” Altair pushed himself up to stare at him, “the training and schooling and the stuff I had to not just know but be good at? It was constant. Every day. To be the best. To be perfect. Because if you wanted to become a thing that would live forever with the power to shape history you had to be good at everything.” Malik had never thought about it like that. “I know you look at me and think I’m stupid. But I’m not. It’s just been over a thousand years. In my time I was the smartest, most capable person you ever met.”

“And coddled beyond belief, I can tell,” Malik said sarcastically.

“And wouldn’t you? To someone you would worship?” Altair demanded. “Someone who could have to killed? Who could just kill you like it was nothing? I know you know how sharp my edge can be. Things like me were feared, revered, and anything I was had followers.”

“You’re just a sword.”

“A sword makes a warrior. Tell me, what are some great warrior stories where they had a magic sword? Ones I might know,” he added before Malik could say anything.

“Well, Odysseus.”

“A great warrior, incredibly intelligent, worshiped by his men, had a magic xiphos that in turn was worshiped because they knew it was magic.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know more than you,” Altair said firmly. “How much Homer have you read to not know that?”

Malik felt awkward. “Well, I read the Odyssey.”

“That’s it? The Iliad? The Mastery of Vestia? The Union Of Goddesses? Or what about the works of Uy-yop Vizail? A Wretched Song? Long Dark? The Magistrate? Or what about the famous harmonicia Gust Trespin?”

“Well I know about the Iliad. But... those other ones... what are those? Who are those people?”

Altair stared at him. “Who is Uy-yop Vizail and Gust Trespin!? They were only some of the most famous poet and ballarder! How do you not know them?” Altair was baffled.

“Their works didn’t survive a thousand years I guess,” Malik said.

“Ugh!” Altair threw his arms up. “Uy-yop was Persian but took his name from Mesopotamia. He was an amazing poet and owned a magical pen. He wrote ten thousand poems that when read over the course of days would make a tree bloom. And the poems worked. They weren’t just spells said in rhyme like some people did that was so trite.”

“And Gust Trespin? What is a harmonicia?”

“Gust was a half nymph. She was a... singer, I guess. But harmonicia’s are those who sing magic. And she was the best the world had seen. I once saw her sing a wildfire away. She sang so prettily she made my grandfather cry. He never cried about anything,” he insisted.

“And those books? What are those books? I’ve never heard of the ones by Homer.”

“Mastery of Vestia was a story about another living weapon and its user. The weapon was named Vestia. It was about how the sword came into Alexander’s possession but how at first it was mostly used as a way to show off to Hephaestion,” Altair rolled his eyes. “And then how Alexander lost the sword because Vestia didn’t think Alexander loved her as much as he did Hephaestion. And from what I know of Alexander it sounds about right for him,” more eye rolling.

“Wait... Alexander. As in Alexander the Great?”

“Well who else would I mean?” Altair huffed at him in annoyance.

“But Homer and Alexander didn’t live in the same time period. Alexander the Great,” because just calling him ‘Alexander’ was not something Malik would ever be able to do. “And Homer lived two to four centuries before Alexander the Great.”

Altair looked at him in annoyance. “It’s been a long thousand years,” he declared.

“Well I’m just telling you how it was told to me, don’t get all huffy.”

“Homer made a deal with a djinn that not until he’d told the greatest story would he be able to die. He thought he’d just live long enough to actually write the Iliad, Odyssey, and Olympiad but that wasn’t the greatest story. So he kept living. He wrote a bunch of other, worse, stuff beyond Odysseus’ journey until he met Alexander and wrote Mastery of Vestia. Spent a life’s work with Alexander to write it. Then the emperor got poisoned,” he rolled his eyes. “That more than anything else is reason enough to not neglect a living weapon.” Malik didn’t understand what he meant. “That also wasn’t the greatest story he was to write and kept living. Then he met Romulus and Remus and wrote The Union of Goddesses.”

“Which is about?” Malik prompted. He’d never heard of any of these things.

“Well Homer’s best stories are feature living weapons. The feral brothers ended up getting their hands on two living weapons; a bow, and a sword. Romulus was very jealous that the sword preferred Remus over him. They fought and Remus was killed, thus bringing the sister weapons together in Romulus’ possession. With the goddesses he went on to win many battles for Roma.”

“But?”

Altair frowned. “Romulus lived a long time and then, and Homer never went deeply into it as the most of Union of Goddesses is about Romulus being an amazing warrior and statesman and fathering many children with his concubines,” he grimaced. “But Romulus ended up dead mysteriously. Homer said a spiteful concubine cut off his head.”

“But?” Malik knew Altair was waiting for that.

“You don’t just take a living weapon from their preferred wielder. We don’t like that; at all. I think he did something stupid and the sword cut his head off.”

“Uhhhhh, how? It’s a sword.”

Altair gestured to himself, “Well I’m in a humanoid form. The bow could have become a person and then used her hand to end the life of her wielder.”

“But wasn’t that her preferred one?”

Altair shrugged widely. “Maybe they didn’t like Romulus becoming what he’d become.” Malik could see the barely restrained excitement from Altair.

“I take it you like to read, hmm?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding quickly.

Really this entire talked just went on to highlight exactly what Altair said; he was very intelligent, just in a way that wasn’t the same intelligence modern people saw. “So after he wrote Union of Goddesses did Homer finally kick the bucket?”

“No, but it was his last story.”

“Then what happened?”

“Early days of Roma were not the shining example we got in history. They were more ‘barbaric’. It got to him and Homer spited the djinn and just killed himself, or had someone kill him. Either way he went out on his own terms. It’s a shame those two didn’t make it to this time. I rather liked them, especially Mastery of Vestia.”

“Despite your less than spectacular opinion of Alexander the Great?” Malik asked cheekily.

Altair was quiet for a moment. “I just wanted my wielder to be like him,” and Malik felt very self conscious. “Courageous, strong, intelligent, devoted, and knew how to keep one of us sated.” Then he huffed loudly. “And then he did the stupid thing and fell in love with Hephaestion,” he folded his arms sourly. “That was why he died in such a stupid way. A great man like Alexander would have kept magic around for a long time. I hope Vestia has it better now,” he frowned.

“Most ancient swords are lost to time,” Malik said.

“She's probably with Alexander, exactly where she wants to be; if someone didn’t steal her,” he added sourly. “Earth stars do not degrade in time like steel does. Alexander’s sword is just as sharp now as when it was made.”

“I see. Because it can self sharpen? Like you do. But you liked me doing it,” he said.

“it felt nice. I have not been sharpened in a thousand years, since my last wielder,” he said, reminiscing. “It’s like... likkkke,” and then he was the worst and started running his hands up and down his chest. “Like this, but all over. It feels nice, you should do it more since you’re horrible at worshiping me properly,” he huffed.

Malik just sort of heard the last part. Oh this wasn’t fair. This so wasn’t fair. And then getting told off because he was trying to not be as gay as humanly possible? Or worse, taking advantage of this poor man out of time who, if he was as much of a book reader and training obsessed meat head as Malik assumed; had never even seen a vagina, let alone been in one.

“Malik, were you even listening to me?” Altair asked. Malik had zoned out.

“You’re really hung up on this worship thing, aren’t you?” Malik said.

“Well what’s the point of being this if I’m not?” Altair asked, annoyed.

Malik put his lap desk on the floor, laptop still open so the music would keep playing. “Fine,” he said. Altair just looked confused. “Let me show you what I do.”


	6. The Cosmos Becomes You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Have an update!!
> 
> This chapter is nsfw and has been truncated. To find out how to read the full chapter you can visit my blog (link a few lines down).
> 
> Anyone who follows me on my blog might have seen I've had a _very_ rough few months medically. But I'm much better now no worse for wear other than like a dozen or so needle pokes. So updates on everything should be quicker. Well, for the most part. AO3 is on a delay on all stories. So if you'd like to be up to date you can visit [my blog](http://xazz.tumblr.com) where I'm posting new stuff sooner. And there's a way to read stuff way ahead of time and stuff that'll never be posted here also on my blog.
> 
> According to my P I wrote this chapter back in February jfc.

Malik was genuinely worried he’d actually pissed Altair off when even after a feeding he didn’t change back a few days later. He also barely ate at all which was also a concern to Malik. He knew Altair couldn’t die. He was a sword and he’d lasted about two thousand years without any blood before. Going a few days wouldn’t starve him. But it did make Malik worried he’d actually upset the guy-sword.

He busied himself with his work instead. He went back to the forge several times and was planning a few days of a trip down to Syria to the spot where Altair had pointed out to him. A place there had once been a forest. Or so he said. Malik could find no records of a forest ever being there. Not on old maps or in historic texts. He’d even reached out to some colleges in Cairo and London for some information but they had nothing to offer him. They thought he was crazy asking for information on a forest in the middle of the Syrian scrub land and desert. 

The day before he was going to go to Syria he knew he needed to see Altair. If only so he wouldn’t be a person while he was gone. He wouldn’t come out to coaxing or blood from an animal.

But he remembered the look of reverence Altair had had when Malik had offered him his arm to drink from. He knew cutting himself for Altair was no small thing for him.

Which was why he was sitting on his bed in just boxers and shirt Altair drawn, his scabbard next to him. Like before he had to really psyche himself up before he drew Altair’s sharp blade across the top of his thigh. Not very deep. Just enough to start to bleed. Then he laid Altair flat across his thigh, the blood welling up along the edges for a moment before Altair’s steel sucked it up. He left Altair there for a minute before pulling him away so he didn’t start to feel light headed. He put the sword back into its scabbard and pressed a large bandage across the new cut. As he did he felt the weight in the bed shift and he looked over and saw Altair sitting next to him, arms folded.

“Hey,” he said.

“You have my attention. What do you want?” Altair asked moodily.

“First: you didn’t let me finish before and I know you’re annoyed-

“You fell asleep,” Altair snapped.

“I didn’t jackass. I closed my eyes. Have you never jerked off in your life to not know that?” Malik asked sharply.

“What sort of dumb question is that?” Altair rolled his eyes but by the color in his cheeks Malik had his answer. What a weirdo.

“Second,” he continued, “I am leaving for a few days. I know you don’t want to go to that mound in Syria so I’m going by myself. You need to stay as a sword while I’m gone.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll be pissed the fuck off,” Malik snapped. Altair just looked away, moody, arms still folded. “Or you can come with me and change back and forth as you want,” he said. Altair didn’t say anything but he could tell he was thinking. While he was Malik used a roll of bandages to secure the adhesive one across his thigh properly.

“I don’t want to go to the forge... but I’ll come with you,” he said as Malik was putting away the first aid stuff.

Malik paused and looked at him, “Seriously?”

“I said I would didn’t I?” Altair growled.

“Okay,” Malik said. “I’ll need to buy some stuff for you.”

“Buy me some new clothes,” he said.

Malik’s lips twitched. “Would that make you happy my picky sword?” Malik asked, leaned over him, making Altair lean back from him, the tip of his ears red.

“It’s the least you can do when you’re such a shitty worshiper,” Altair growled.

Malik ruffled his hair, “We’ll see about that. Want me to put some music on for you? I need to go shopping?”

“Yes,” Altair said.

Malik opened his laptop and turned on some music. “And put on some pants,” he said.

“Where did you put my clothes?”

Malik rolled his eyes and went to get them like Altair couldn’t figure out that clothes were in a dresser. He handed them to Altair and totally watched while he pulled them on. Altair didn’t look at him while he did. Not because he was uncomfortable but rather he seemed self conscious. “I’ll be back in a little bit,” Malik said, holding Altair’s face in one hand. Altair looked up at him with silent amber eyes. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”

“Whatever,” he said, rolling his eyes. Malik gave him a little pat on the cheek and left him with the music playing, closing the door after him. 

—

When the rental car was packed the last thing Malik had to get was Altair who was laying on his bed listening to music as usual. He was obsessed with it and always called it an infinite music box. Malik wasn’t about to tell him he was wrong. “Okay bud, time to go. You need to be a sword now,” he said to Altair who had his eyes closed. The world stuttered for a second and he was gone. “How the fuck does that happen?” he asked himself in English. 

He put his laptop and charger into the bag and picked Altair up. He said goodbye to Jawna and Obaid. Jawna had seen him off with about a week’s worth of food even though he was just going to be gone for three days. “You’re taking that old sword?” Obaid asked when he saw Malik with it.

“Huh? Yeah. I figure if my lead is right the forge itself might react to weapons. And this is the only weapon I have that it would recognize. Not like it would recognize a gun,” he chuckled.

“Ah. Does it do that? Do others?”

“This is the first weapon forge I’ve seen. So maybe. Doesn’t hurt to experiment. I’ll see you folks later,” he waved with Altair and saw himself out.

Malik had rented an SUV with a large back he could fold the back down in and sleep in at night and had stuffed the front back area full of provisions and extra gas so he could keep the car running at night if it got too cold. He put his laptop there and put Altair upright in the passenger seat. He double checked his list, made sure his map was ready, and drove away from the house. 

About an hour later, Dörtyol way in the rear view he felt a strange sensation wash over him. It was the urge to open the door and jump out of the moving car. It made all the hair on his arms stand on end. It persisted for so long he pulled over and got out, walking around, shaking his arms out. He was left with the creeping inquisition anyway. He wasn’t sure he liked the feeling. He’d never felt this way before-

That night with Altair. He’d felt hungry all the sudden. A ravenous hunger that he hadn’t been able to explain. He went around the passenger side of the car and opened the door. “Stop doing that,” he said sternly. The feeling faded and the sword slid forward on the seat like someone had pulled it. He was at once starving again. “You’re such a brat,” Malik went into the big cooler in the back and pulled out one of the pints of blood. He pulled Altair out, sat in the passenger side seat, and dipped him into the blood. The blood evaporated into the sword. Altair felt warm in his hand a moment before that too faded.

“Happy now? And yes, you can be a human if you want now,” Malik rolled his eyes and then flushed when Altair was, at once, naked, in his lap. “Dude! Wait a damn second!” he cried.

“You literally just said I could be human,” Altair said boredly, sitting on one of his thighs.

“Ugh,” he pushed Altair to standing and went to the back and grabbed one of Altair’s thobes.

“Did you buy me new clothes?” he asked.

“Yes, they’re back at the house. Just put this on and stop being naked,” he handed it to Altair. Altair rolled his eyes and pulled it on. “Now get in the car, we still have a lot of driving to do.”

“What’s that?”

“That,” Malik pointed.

Altair looked at the SUV and his eyes got huge. “What carriage is this? Where are the horses?”

“There are none. It runs off an engine... which is a big metal contraption that creates energy that pushes the car forward using tiny explosions,” Malik said slowly.

“So... magic?”

“I mean... I guess? To you it’s magic. It’s just engineering and mechanical operations,” he said. Altair blinked at him. “Just get in the car. We got a long way to go,” he said and gave Altair a little push into the car. Altair climbed into the seat and Malik leaned in to buckle him in.

“What is this?” Altair pulled on the new restraint.

“It’s called a seat belt. It keeps you safe in case of an accident. Like if we crash,” Malik said patiently.

Altair’s eyes got huge again. “You won’t crash, will you?”

“I don’t plan on it, no,” Malik said.

“Good,” Altair put his hand on Malik’s arm.

“Watch your hand,” Malik said, standing back to close the door. Altair started at the loud noise and moved his head to watch Malik walk around the car to get into the driver’s seat. He looked a bit freaked out when Malik put the car into gear and they started moving.

“How is it going?”

“I told you. An engine is making it move.”

“But how. There’s nothing here,” Altair said.

“See that protrusion in front of us?” Malik motioned as they got up to speed for the highway.

“Yes— we are going very fast,” Altair was distracted by that now. He was looking out the window, hands on the window, watching the scenery flash by. Malik tried getting his attention but Altair wasn’t listening. Malik put the podcast he’d been listening to back on and kept driving.

“Malik,” Altair said after a few minutes.

“Hmm?” Malik asked, glancing at him but keeping his eyes on the road because the road wasn’t great.

“I don’t feel so good.”

“Huh? Like what do you mean?” And then he abruptly felt nauseous. “Knock that shit off,” he shoved Altair. “You’re car sick. Look at the horizon,” he ordered.

“Okay,” Altair groaned, sounding sick. At least Malik didn’t feel bad like that anymore.

“Feeling better?” Malik asked after a few miles.

“Yeah. A bit,” Altair said softly.

“Look ahead, it helps,” Malik said and Altair turned to look out the windshield. “I’d offer you some water or food but you don’t do that stuff do you?”

“No,” Altair said and closed his eyes.

“Closing your eyes makes it worse,” Malik advised him.

Altair opened his eyes. “You know a lot about this... car sickness.”

“My brother used to get car sick a lot,” Malik said. “And he’s the biggest whiny baby in the world as soon as he feels even a little queasy.”

“Oh,” Altair looked out to the road. “Where are we?”

“On the right road, and that’s all that matters,” Malik said.

“How long will it take us to get there?”

“About three more hours,” Malik said. They were coming up on another pack of cars on the highway.

“There are more of them,” Altair pointed.

“Yeah. They’re common.”

“People just have magic carriages?” Altair asked him. 

“They’re a few thousand... uh, whatever currency you prefer but yeah-

“A FEW THOUSAND! So expensive! People can actually afford that?” Altair asked.

“Yeah,” Malik smiled slightly. “The world’s changed a lot. Money has changed.”

“Can I see the money?” Altair asked.

“Mmm,” Malik dug around for his wallet in his back pocket. He opened it and pulled out some lira, handing them over to Altair.

“They’re flat. Paper? Why paper?” he wasn’t really talking to Malik so much as himself. “Who are these men?”

“No idea.”

“Are they the sultan and his sons?”

“Nope.”

Altair stared at them for a while, looking over every inch of the bills. Malik turned the podcast back on while they drove. “Who’s that? Who’s speaking?” Altair asked, looking in the back seat.

“Magic carriages also play music, or have men that talk about things to you,” Malik said.

“Whaaaaat. Really!? That’s amazing! I can’t understand them though,” he frowned.

“They’re speaking English.”

“English? Who speak that? I’ve never heard of that language before.”

“Americans do, and a lot of people from Europe and Australia— you have no idea what that is,” he sighed.

“I know of Europa,” Altair scoffed. “But America? Australia? What are those?”

“Continents.”

Altair blinked. “There are others? I mean I knew there were, Africa is a continent,” he added before Malik gave him a look, “But other than those?”

“Yeah. You didn’t know that?”

“I did not care for geography,” Altair wrinkled his nose. “It was unlikely I’d ever leave my home land so it was unnecessary to know places too far to travel easily in a lifetime. But I guess that isn’t a problem now,” he motioned to the car. “You can go so fast in this time.”

“This isn’t even the fastest thing we’ve built.”

“No?”

“Nope. What’s the fastest thing you can think of?”

“Hmmmmm, that you would understand? A cheetah. They run so fast. I’ve seen wind gyre nymphs move faster but,” he shrugged.

“We’re going as fast as a cheetah right now,” Malik said. Altair’s eyes were huge. Fuck he was so cute. It was annoying how cute he was. “And we’ve made things that can go three, four, six times faster than a cheetah.” Altair’s eyes were so big Malik wasn’t sure they weren’t going to pop.

“You’re lying,” Altair accused him.

“Nope,” Malik said.

“Really?”

“Yeap.”

“That’s... that’s amazing,” he said in awe. “And we’re really going as fast a cheetah right now?”

“Yeap.”

“Wow,” Altair said and looked out the window again. Malik turned the podcast back on but Altair was ignoring it this time. At least for a while. “Malik,” he said, “will you make the carriage play music instead?”

“In a minute, the show is almost over.”

Altair didn’t complain. Once the podcast was over Malik put on some music. It was also in English but at least Altair could enjoy it in a way he couldn’t with a podcast.

They passed through the Turkey Syria border with Altair as a sword and it was only early afternoon when they arrived at the place Altair said was once a forest. Malik pulled over and took out his map. The highway had given way to a simple paved road in the middle of the desert. They were utterly alone out here and the heat was intense. He checked the map and sent a message to his brother over his satellite phone. If he didn’t contact him in three days to assume he was missing and try and get some help. He didn’t know how much Kadar could do from America but it was better than nothing.

Once he was sure of the place he drove off the road towards the mound in the distance. Altair was looking right at it, face serious. “Does this look familiar?” Malik asked him.

“It’s hard to tell. The forest is gone,” Altair said. “Probably,” he shrugged.

They drove half an hour to the mound. It was a weird hill with nothing on it. He circled it to go around the other side and while there was nothing there Malik did see where there were strange indents in the ground. Malik parked next to it, out of view of the road and got out, putting on his ball cap as he did. Altair stayed in the car, windows rolled down, watching him.

Malik went over to the indents and crouched using his hand to brush away the dirt. it took him a little bit but he did reveal a great white rock slab. He started to rapidly brush away more of the dirt to reveal more of the white rock slab imbedded in the earth. He went to another indent and did the same, more white rock. He looked around, there were six of these great slabs, arranged in almost a circle about fifty feet across.

“Altair,” he called, “go into the back of the carriage and get my shovel.”

“Get it yourself,” Altair called back.

“Don’t be an asshole, help me out here,” he yelled and started towards the car. Like a dejected teen he slouched out of the SUV and opened the back door to rifle through his things before producing the collapsible shovel. Malik took it when he was down the mound, “Thanks.”

“It’s small- woah!” Altair said. “More magic,” he proclaimed when Malik telescoped the shaft of the shovel out to the length of a proper shovel.

“It’s just a bunch of different sized rods inside each other that can go in and out of each other, see,” and he showed Altair. “Hardly magic.”

Altair frowned, “I guess,” he said.

Malik went back over to the slab and started digging down next to it to start to excavate it. He was not in great shape but whatever. The soil was loose and easily came up even under his flabby muscles. He had to stop often to breathe and wipe the sweat out of his eyes.

About an hour later he’d dug about three feet down and he was exhausted. He left the shovel and went back to the SUV. He tore off his shirt, leaving it to dry out on the hood and got into the car, rolled up the windows and blasted the AC.

“You find what you’re looking for in there?” Altair asked him.

“It’s been covered by dirt since that satellite picture, but probably,” Malik said. He turned around in the seat to grab at the cooler and pulled out some water. He wanted to chug it but didn’t. He instead sipped it then got out of the SUV and poured a small amount of the cold water on his head which gave him a shock of cold to his core. He got back into the car.

“I expected you to be more excited.”

“I’m waiting until I see something of substance. A slab of white rock is nothing yet. We’ve seen slabs of white rock in various places in the world or housed in royal places. A slab is nothing. If there is something under the slab I’ll be excited.” He put the music on again and chilled out. He had two protein bars and recovered from digging in the hot sun for about two hours. When he felt better he went out and dug some more. 

The process repeated several more times before dark. Malik was starting to get discouraged as the sun was starting to go down and he was seeing nothing else but slab. In the low sun he leaned down and looked at the hole he’d dug at the slab. His eyes widened. He saw a break in the rock. It was another piece under it and it had some chiseling on it. With some renewed vigor he expanded the hole so that by the time it was sunset he could see the crown of a great column. He could see part of the top and sides. He let out a cry of delight as he climbed out of the hole, doing a little jig.

“What’s with all the hollering?” Altair asked, he’d barely moved from the passenger side window, watching Malik all day.

“I found it! Or something! I found the forge! They buried it,” he cried excitedly.

Altair didn’t share his enthusiasm. “Oh.”

“This is great!” He opened the back of the SUV and climbed inside, grabbing for his journal and camera notes. “I need to document this and make sure the process is notated. Oh man I need to start working on another grant to unearth this. No way I could,” and he clambered back down into the hole. But it was too dark to take good pictures.

“Malik,” Altair called even as he tried to take pictures anyway. “Come back. It’s too dark. You can do it in the morning.”

“Hmm?” He looked down, having forgotten himself. “Oh, yeah I suppose,” he said to himself. He grabbed his shovel, camera, and journal and clambered out of the hole.

“Are you really so excited to find a buried forge?” Altair asked him.

“Well I’d be more excited if it was unearthed but yeah,” Malik said, beaming at him. “Thank you,” and he grabbed Altair’s face in both hands and gave him a hard kiss on the lips before releasing him. “I don’t have nearly the amount of funding I need to unearth the entire thing but just proof it exists could get me it for... years. This is amazing.”

Altair blinked at him slowly. “So you want to dig it up?”

“Yes.”

“But you keep saying magic doesn’t exist. This is the most magical structure you’ve ever seen, and the second most magical object you’ve seen other than me.”

“It’s a significant historic monument. People know white forges exist and that they were important to our ancestors. There were white forges as far back as mid kingdom Egypt, Mesopotamia, before China was China every Emperor had their own white forge making weapons for their champions. We know white forges exist and white rock existed. No one’s arguing with me about that. It’s what it was used for and their importance in ancient society they take issue with.”

“But you don’t believe in magic.”

“Magic didn’t make those weapons and tools. Men did. And that’s the significance,” Malik said.

Altair sighed and leaned back in the seat. “If you say so,” he shrugged. He looked at the mound. “This forge made a few living weapons, including me,” he said softly. “It... doesn’t look like the forge you know from the mountain, Malik. Have you ever seen a weapon forge?”

“Not fully intact, no,” Malik said. “Which is why this is so exciting! Take away all the debris and what’s it look like underneath?” He’d ask Altair but he didn’t want to bring up bad memories, so he kept the questions to himself. “I need to do some more digging tomorrow. But for now I’m starving,” and he dug around in the cooler for dinner, which would be cold but he’d live. 

He put up a lantern as it got dark and did his best to wipe off some of the sweat and stink off his body before sitting on the open back of the SUV to have dinner. Altair climbed out of the passenger seat and came to sit next to him. “You hungry too?” Malik asked him.

“Something like that,” Altair shrugged. “It isn’t hunger like how I used to feel.”

“Hmmm,” Malik nodded slowly. He dusted his hands and reached into the cooler for a pint of blood. “Don’t get it all over yourself,” he said, offering it to Altair.

Altair didn’t take it right away. “Could I have some of yours instead?” Altair asked quietly.

Malik paused. “I didn’t really bring anything for that,” he said. “And you said animal blood was fine.”

“Well you’ve been such a good worshipper I thought it was the least you could do,” Altair said sarcastically.

Malik gave him an annoyed look. Then he sighed. “Drink this, let me finish my dinner, and I’ll think about it,” he said. Altair pouted and took the sheep’s blood. He sulked, turning away from Malik, and sipped the blood while Malik ate his own dinner. 

There was no sound in the desert except for the soft hum of the lights Malik had as the night swallowed them. Malik looked up at the stars. They’re so bright out there. “I dunno if you know,” he started, “But your name is also the name of a star.”

“It is? Which one?” Altair asked, looking up at the sky.

“Hmmm,” Malik looked around for the constellation but he was shit at constellations. He ended up consulting a star map he’d brought along. “There,” he pointed at the diamond shaped Eagle constellation. “It looks like this,” he showed Altair the star map. “Altair is the brightest star in the constellation.”

“Aetus,” Altair said, “That’s what we called that star in my time. I like Altair more.”

“You would,” Malik chuckled.

Altair looked over the star map. “I don’t recognize some of these constellations. They’ve... moved.”

“Yeah, the stars move.” 

“They do?”

“Of course. The galaxy moves, all the stars move.” Altair didn’t understand. “Modern astronomy is a bit beyond you I guess. But you know the sun doesn’t orbit the Earth, right?”

“It... it was hypothesized, yes,” Altair said at length though looked like he’d just swallowed a gigantic pill. He looked up at the starry sky. “The fey claimed they could prove it didn’t orbit the earth but as far as I know it never happened.”

“Well it was proven. The Earth orbits the sun, and so do other planets. And the sun itself is in orbit in a giant collection of stars called a galaxy around a center point of... well, we aren’t quite sure. But it, and the stars, and the universe is in constant motion. So the stars you see now weren’t where they were when you were human,” and Altair was looking up at the sky like it would fall on him. “Similar postition but changed,” he added.

“The world’s changed a lot,” he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the sky. 

Malik frowned at him, pulled on a long sleeved shirt for the desert chill and put his arm around Altair’s shoulders. That surprised him but he didn’t pull away. 

“You were in there a long time,” Malik said. “What was the last time you remember?”

“There was a war,” Altair said and he was honestly surprised Altair moved into his side, tucking himself more up under his arm. “My first wielder was dead, my second one was fighting some enemy. I don’t know when. They murdered him in his sleep,” he sighed. “Shame. He was good.”

“How do you know he was murdered in his sleep?”

“Because he was sleeping,” Altair gave him a look. “They knew they couldn’t best him in combat with me in his hand so they killed him when he was helpless,” he sighed.

“And what happened to you after that?” Malik rubbed his arm comfortingly.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t used for a long time. I might have been put up on a wall. Then one day I was unsheathed and I was used. Then there was nothing, for a long time. Then you found me,” he looked at Malik.

Malik squeezed his shoulder, “And you’ve been a real brat since, huh?”

Altair scowled at him, “I’m not a brat, you just treat me improperly. At least my last wielder knew how to handle a living sword,” he scoffed.

“Do you still want to have some of my blood?” Malik asked him, catching Altair off guard.

“Ah- yes,” he said.

“You seem to like mine more than animal blood. How come?” Malik asked even as he unbuttoned his shirt to pull his arm out of the sleeve.

“You belong to me,” Altair said and the hair on the back of Malik’s neck stood on end. “And despite everything,” he sighed, “you are my wielder.” He shrugged.

“So... did you like your other wielder’s blood more too?”

“Hmmm. My grandfather never let me try his. My other one would sometimes ritually blood let. He thought it made me sharper. I was just the sharpest sword he’d ever had,” Altair said thoughtfully. “I just like it,” he shrugged.

“Does it like... taste different or something?”

“No. I don’t taste a difference. I just like it,” Altair said, not really knowing how to explain how or why he preferred Malik’s blood. 

“Do you like the taste of it?”

“Hmmm. Not really.”

“What? You don’t even like drinking it?”

“Well I don’t taste it when I’m a sword,” Altair rolled his eyes. “And I need it to sustain this form. So like it or not I need it,” he said.

“Or you could be a sword.”

“I’ve been a sword all alone for centuries. I’ll suffer you to not have that,” Altair said and it was a backhanded compliment Malik didn’t appreciate. But he let Altair get away with it.

Malik found his knife in his bag. He’d brought some first aid stuff with him in case of an accident out in the field so was able to wipe the blade down with antiseptic. He handed it to Altair and wiped down part of his arm too. “Go on. I can’t do it myself,” he sighed.

“You did it before.”

“Just do it.” He winced when Altair cut him on the arm and looked away when Altair put his mouth against the cut. He didn’t need to have an existential crisis about having a vampire or blood fetish.

He licked at the cut for about a minute or so before pulling away and fiddled around in the first aid kit. He found the bandages and saw the peroxide Malik had used to sterilize the knife and skin and wiped the cut down and wrapped his wound up. Malik watched him there. He was very gentle in wrapping Malik’s arm, only barely touching the bandages once they were in place. Once he’d finished he gently stroked the bandages before looking up at Malik. His pupils were big, eyes soft. He was so pretty and it wasn’t just the blood loss making Malik think that. 

“You liked that huh?” Malik asked him gently. Altair just nodded. Malik reached up and stroked his chin. When he wasn’t mouthing off Altair really was very cute. Altair licked the side of his mouth and Malik couldn’t even stop himself. He leaned over and kissed him. Altair was not a good kisser by any stretch of the imagination. He didn’t really participate either. His mouth tasted like copper and iron but that was fair, he’d just drunken a pint of blood. Not the worst tasting mouth Malik had ever kissed either. “If you aren’t so moody about it I can show you how I planned to worship you the other day,” he said mildly.

That piqued Altair’s interest. “Yeah? I’d like that,” he said softly. Then he bit his lips like he was about to say something rude but stopped himself. Thank goodness. Malik could not stand his snark sometimes.

Malik stood up and put away all the things for dinner and made sure any garbage he’d made was in a bag and also in the cooler so it wouldn’t attract animals at night. Altair watched him, staying out of the way, as Malik rearranged things, putting most of them under the SUV or the front seat. Altair climbed out when Malik unrolled the inflatable bed he’d bought because he hated camping and he wasn’t going to just sleep on the back seat like a monster. It didn’t inflate tall like a normal inflatable bed but it got you off the bottom of the trunk.

“Woooow,” Altair said when Malik plugged the pump into the outlet in the SUV and it started to inflate. He tried putting his hand on it.

“Don’t do that,” Malik called from the front seat. Altair snatched his hand away. The mattress filled up in just a few short minutes. “Okay, you can get on it if you want,” he said, turning the pump off. Altair tested it out. It was pretty cute. Like a child testing out being on an ice rink for the first time, curious but sort of scared. He looked at Malik to make sure it was alright and then climbed onto it.

“It is squishy,” he declared, laying on his stomach across the mattress.

“It’s full of air.”

“Like a cloud?”

Malik chuckled as he turned the car off. “Yeah, you could think of it like that.”

“A bed made of air... I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Altair said, wide-eyed.

“Well it’s made of plastic. The plastic holds the air.”

“What is plastic?” Altair asked. He’d never heard the word before.

Malik didn’t answer right away. “That is a very long, complicated, answer. If I take the time to tell you I probably won’t be able to worship you tonight,” he said, standing under the open back of the SUV.

Altair rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows. “I’d rather you do that,” he said, even if he didn’t quite know what that would entail.

“Heh, that’s what I figured,” Malik said. He sat on the edge of the back and took off his pants and boots, putting on some pajama pants. He grabbed the pillows and blanket he’d brought with him to keep warm and threw them into the back before climbing in with Altair. He arranged the pillows for later and grabbed Altair, pulling him over to him. “Now, I want no more complaining I don’t worship you,” he said firmly.

“Then actually do so,” Altair rolled his eyes at him.

Malik didn’t answer him. He just kissed him. First on the lips and then deepening the kiss which Altair didn’t really return. Malik chalked that up as him having little experience kissing anyone than not wanting to and Malik could tell by the way Altaair grabbed his shirt with one hand. 

Then he started kissing Altair’s face and down his neck and throat. His skin was cool but not cold. Malik hiked his thobe up before pulling it up over Altair’s head and tossing it into the window only to go back to kissing him again and pressing him down into the airbed. He took his time. It was nice. But after a long day out digging in the hot Syrian sun he was exhausted. “Alright. I think I have thoroughly worshiped you. I’m fucking tired now,” he announced and pushed himself up off of Altair.

“That was really nice. I liked that,” Altair said dreamily.

“Good. Now do you want to be a sword for the night or like this?”

Altair made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat. “You’re going to make me put on clothes if I say this form, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Because your skin isn’t warm,” and Malik finally closed the back of the SUV. He clicked the overhead lights back on to arrange his pillows. Altair contemplated him with narrowed eyes.

“Finnnne,” Altair grabbed his thobe from where Malik had thrown it and pulled it back on. “Pleased?”

“As punch,” he said in English because there was no direct translation to that saying in Arabic.

“I will assume you’re satisfied.”

“Something like that,” Malik laid down on the inflatable bed. “Since you’re magic any chance you could, I don’t know, not be cold?”

“You mean change the temperature of my body? Yes, I could do that I think,” he laid down next to Malik who was pulling the blankets up. 

“Really?”

“Maybe,” Altair didn’t sound entirely sure himself. “Hmmm,” and he closed his eyes. Malik waited and then, quite literally, like magic, Altair’s skin rose up to human skin temperature.

“That’s very impressive,” Malik meant it too.

“Thank you,” Altair said brightly.

Malik grunted, sat up to turn off the overhead light. “It’s much nicer sleeping next to someone warm,” and he pulled Altair against him. Altair allowed it and put his hand on Malik’s chest. “I don’t know if you need to sleep but I do.”

“Yes, I figured.”

“Important day tomorrow. More digging.”

“Fantastic,” Altair said sarcastically.

“That means shhh,” Malik shushed him gently and snuggled against Altair. He wasn’t sure if Altair went to sleep but Malik was out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe leave a nice lil comment. It lets me know you're enjoying and actively reading my work, and you know, makes me feel good lol


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